Seize the Light
by Theo-Logic
Summary: Toby begins to have trouble controlling his gift, all for no obvious reason.
1. Part One

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Listener _or any associated characters.

**Part One**

Toby required a certain finesse to get through the day. The barrier he had painstakingly constructed in his head over nearly twenty years was more of a constant negotiation than a wall. Barbarian hordes met his diplomats, and occasionally he was able to get them to shake hands and return in the other direction, with minimal overflow over the border.

Occasionally he couldn't. Occasionally they burned his cities and stole his women - usually the latter - and once in a while, they sacked the capital and left him a quivering wreck of a human being.

Getting through the night was an even more complicated matter - it was one thing to deal with the thoughts of others, but his own were simply burdensome. There were memories with ragged edges - a woman with eyes like his, a burning trailer, sneaking out of a building the purpose of which he couldn't quite remember.

There were questions. Was there anyone else out there like him? What did silence sound like? (He had vague ideas, like a blind man fantasizing about color.)

The day it started was the day he actually asked it. He adjusted the collar of his shirt, and waited a moment to see if dispatch might distract him. Oz hummed along to a song in his head, which Toby tried to shuffle towards the back of his own thoughts.

"What's it like, anyway?" he asked.

Oz stopped humming and glanced over. "What's what like?"

"Quiet. You know, getting in to bed and just . . . silence."

Oz pulled his bottom lip over his teeth, then adjusted himself so he was facing Toby. "C'mon, man."

"No, I'm serious." Toby swiped the bottom of his nose. "If there's no noise out in the real world, my concentration just gets pulled toward the, you know. Thoughts."

"I thought you could block it out."

"Not completely."

After a moment where Toby stared at the dashboard (they just didn't _talk _about this kind of thing, what was he thinking?) and Oz stared at him, Oz opened his mouth. "Ah, well, you know. It's just - no sound."

Toby looked up. "I have no idea what that sounds like."

"It doesn't sound like anything," Oz started, but Toby shot him a look, so he paused. "All right, fine. You know when you walk into a room that no one's been in for a while and everything's all still? Nothing moving but the air going in and out of your lungs? I guess that's kind of what silence is like. 'S'hard to explain."

After a beat, Toby said, "Okay."

"Seriously, though, man, you've never been alone?"

Dispatch crackled, and Oz started up the rig. Toby shrugged. "Sure. In a room, in my apartment. Maybe even a building. But there are always people out on the streets, or in the next building over or something."

"Hmm," said Oz. The ambulance wailed. They made a right turn. Toby tried to fill the void, to think of something to say.

"That was rather eloquent, you know," he said.

"Maybe if they make me prime minister you'll see some more of that."

Toby snorted, and angled himself to grab his bag and open the door. The moment they stopped, both men swung out and retrieved the stretcher. They jogged up the steps to the apartment building. Before they even had to buzz, a couple pushed open the gate. Oz caught it and they dashed through and up the stairs.

The door to the apartment was already unlocked. It didn't take them that long to find the two women, one hunched over the other. The other appeared to be seizing, and stopped just as they reached her. Toby gently pulled the first away, and Oz began to work. "What happened?" Toby asked.

"She just - she fell and started shaking. They told me to keep her still, so I tried to hold her down - Is she going to be okay?"

Toby glanced at Oz. Oz straightened out a bit. "We're going to have to get her to the hospital, ma'am." He jerked his head towards the waiting stretcher. "Toby, help me out here."

They moved the woman up onto the stretcher, then carried it as delicately as possible down the stairs. The other woman followed them, staying a few steps behind. Once they reached the bottom landing, she walked next to them until they loaded her girlfriend into the rig.

This was when it happened.

It started with the woman:

_Dear god is she going to be okay she doesn't have epilepsy does she only kids get that don't they I can't remember dear god dear god dear god Marie . . ._

Toby gritted his teeth and tried to renegotiate his barrier without breaking his concentration on Marie. Then Oz's thoughts joined the chorus.

_I hope she didn't just have a grand mal but that would be kind of sudden must be something else aw what the hell I'm not a doctor hey Toby doesn't look so good . . ._

The couple from earlier returned up the sidewalk. Upon seeing the paramedics, they stopped and stared, as people tended to.

_Hey those are the EMS guys from earlier that couldn't be Marie and Val from downstairs could it I just saw her yesterday . . ._

_Geez I wonder what happened Marie didn't get hurt did she Garrett said he saw her at the gym yesterday I'd be worried if she wasn't gay lord Val looks worried . . ._

Toby breathed in, steadied himself. He pulled up every method Ray had ever taught him, and found they weren't working. "Toby?" Oz asked. "You all right?" Val was annoyed - whatever was wrong with this guy couldn't possibly be as important as what was happening to Marie.

"Uh," Toby began, and then it really hit.

First, it was everyone on their side of the apartment building, then it was the building across the street. Thirty, maybe forty voices swarmed like bees inside his head and there was nothing he could do to keep them out. He fell back against the ambulance, clutching his ears like he was nine years old all over again.

Suddenly Val was less annoyed - she realized this was serious, but she wanted them to hurry it up and get Marie to the hospital, and the couple was secretly pleased to be getting a real spectacle. Several people were watching from their windows, and a man was rushing from the inside to see what was the matter.

"Toby," Oz said, kneeling, "you getting a hit?"

_What the hell's a hit this guy doesn't get migraines does he why would they let him be a paramedic what about Marie . . ._

"No," Toby breathed out, proud of himself for even managing to comprehend Oz's question. "It's something else."

Oz swallowed. He was uncertain about what to do; this wasn't something he ever thought would happen . . . Toby was not reassured by his partner's train of thought. "All right," he said. "We'll get you up in the front, and, uh - you. Ride in the back. Call if something's wrong. I'll get us to the hospital as fast as possible and everything's going to be okay, yeah?"

Val blinked several times, uncertain. "Yeah, okay," she said after a beat. Oz helped Toby straighten out, then helped Val into the back. He followed behind as Toby staggered towards his seat, then rushed to get into his own.

Thankfully, nothing happened with Marie on the way. Toby grunted every time they passed a crowded area or a large building. By the time they handed Marie and Val off to the doctors, Marie was beginning to come to.

"Hey, look, something happened while we were picking that girl up," Oz explained in a rush. He, Olivia, and a male doctor Toby vaguely remembered as being named Zach carefully moved Toby from the passenger seat.

"I'm -" Toby started to say 'I'm fine' then realized how incredibly ridiculous that was. The noise from the hospital was worse than the noise from the apartment buildings. These people were injured, dying, some of them even comatose, and couldn't they just be quiet for a minute or two and let him hear himself think for once? "Call Ray," he told Olivia, and was rushed off.

Everyone else engulfed him.

* * *

Ray arrived in a flurry of cold. He stuffed his gloves into his coat pocket, and rushed up to the front desk. "I'm looking for Toby Logan," he said.

The receptionist looked up at him. Her cheeks were pockmarked, but her lips were precisely the right shade of red. "And you are?"

"His psychologist," Ray explained. "Dr. Fawcett called me in."

The receptionist stroked a few keys before looking up again. She told him the room number. Ray ran as quickly as he could in the appropriate direction.

Olivia intercepted him. "Dr. Mercer," she said quietly. "Toby wanted me to call you, but we don't actually know what's wrong with him yet. Do you have any idea?"

Ray breathed in, and reminded himself that while Toby was considerably more than just another patient, his obligations here required him to be calm. "I'd have to see him," he said. "He didn't mention anything the last time I spoke with him."

Olivia bit her lip. "He's very upset. We've tried talking with him, but he stopped responding about half an hour ago. He just keeps covering his ears. I really hope you'll be able to help."

The corridor suddenly seemed very small, very confined - or was that his chest? Ray could very clearly remember the little boy that had been brought to him. The only other doctor Toby had seen thought he was severely autistic; such was the severity of his condition. Every hour, every year, every setback they'd moved past - that couldn't just be wiped away in half an hour.

Something else had to be happening.

"I hope," Ray agreed. "I have to see him. Alone."

Olivia looked at him for a moment. "Certainly," she said.

She led him the rest of the way to Toby's room. Gingerly, she opened the door, but their appearance didn't seem to have any effect. Ray swallowed, calmed his thoughts, and moved in. "I'll check in in a bit," Olivia said, and closed the door behind her.

Toby was hunched over his knees, hands clasped over his head and palms pressed against his ears. He groaned weakly, but it was obvious that he had mostly given up.

Ray pulled a chair from the other side of the room over to the bedside, and eased himself down. "Toby," he said gently. "It's Ray."

Toby tilted his head to the side slightly. His eyes weren't those of his nine-year-old self. They still belonged to a grown man. For this, Ray was grateful.

"Is this a problem with your control? Just nod for yes."

Toby nodded.

Ray cursed under his breath. "You've tried everything, then."

Toby nodded.

"All right. We're going to go through that first exercise I taught you, okay? We'll start from the ground up. If we have to start all over again, Toby, we'll do it. I'm going to get you back to normal."

Toby nodded. He turned his face back between his knees, and Ray could see him beginning the exercise.

"Pick out my thoughts specifically," Ray murmured. "It's just like picking out a noise in a crowded room. Listen to what I'm thinking, ignore the rest."

Toby worked silently for at least a minute. Ray kept his thoughts steady and repetitive, all the easier to latch onto. Finally, Toby breathed in shakily and looked up. There was still a pained expression on his face, but things were calmer.

"Okay," he said after a beat.

"That took you twenty minutes the first time we tried it. Things aren't as bad as they used to be."

"Okay," said Toby.

"Are you ready to move on?"

"Okay."

"Keep concentrating on my thoughts. Try to block out the rest. Don't just ignore them. Get rid of them. This might take a bit longer, I'm sure you remember . . ."

Both of them did.


	2. Part Two

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Listener _or any associated characters.

**Part Two**

Ray managed to get out before Olivia could check in. She greeted him several feet away from the door. "How is he?" she asked.

"Better," said Ray.

Olivia handed him a Styrofoam cup of coffee he'd assumed was hers. "What did you do?"

"I led him through some exercises I taught him awhile ago. If you could, don't disturb him for awhile. He really needs to be left alone."

With a glance at the door and a glance at him, she expressed her doubts. She hadn't liked what she'd seen in her friend, Ray imagined, and was willing to do anything to keep from seeing it again. "I'll tell the nurses," she said. "Look, Toby's partner wants to speak with you. Oz. If that's all right."

Ray ran a hand over his head, exhaled. "Sure."

Oz was in the waiting room. Olivia pointed to him, Ray walked up. "Excuse me," he said. Oz looked up.

"Uh, Dr. Mercer right? Toby's shrink?"

"Yes," said Ray. He sat down a seat away from Oz. "Dr. Fawcett said you wanted to talk with me."

Oz cleared his throat, and shook his head. "Right." He leaned in. "Um, look. Does this have anything to do with Toby's, you know?" He gestured towards his temple. "He told me that you know about it, and if you're coming here I just -"

Ray raised his eyebrows. "You know?"

"He told me, yeah. I'm his best friend."

He couldn't afford to worry about that now. So he moved on. "He lost control. I don't know why."

Oz licked his lips, and leaned back. A cup of coffee stuck up above the armrest. "I guess you know the hits he's been getting recently. Could that have anything to do with this?"

"I don't know yet." Ray glanced at the corridor that led to Toby's room. "You won't be able to visit him until later, although I'd like to get him out of here as soon as possible. As soon as he's more . . . stable."

Oz took a sip from his own coffee. Ray realized he hadn't touched his. "Got it. Gotta keep the secret. He gonna be okay?" said Oz.

"He should be."

Oz nodded. "Look, I gotta go explain all this to Ryder - uh, our boss. Chances are this'll involve a lot of paperwork. So I'll talk to you later." He stood up and shook Ray's hand briefly before heading down the hallway opposite Toby's.

Ray sunk further into his own chair, uncomfortable as it was, and resigned himself to wait.

* * *

Toby forced himself to stretch out, and leave his hands by his side. By now he had sorted out the majority of the noise, and was simply trying to keep everything in order. He could still hear Ray, out in the waiting room, albeit more distantly.

This on the day he chose to worry about silence. He'd be grateful for just a _little _less noise, now. He ran through another exercise.

Finally, at long last, some sort of break was made. The hordes stopped clamoring quite so loudly. His diplomats came back from their cigarette break and Toby was able to relax a little bit. The noise level, at least, was back to normal.

He felt childish and stupid, although he realized he might be the only person on earth who would associate this with those emotions. It was almost like wetting the bed.

He was thirteen the last time he lost control. He had opened the floodgates just a little bit, hoping to nab some test answers off a classmate. Everything came rushing in all at once, and after four days he still hadn't been entirely over it. He had been terrified that he was going to lose it all again. That fear was seeping back.

If now, more than ten years later, he could still collapse in the middle of a job, all for no good reason, maybe he would lose the barrier. Maybe they'd ship him off to a mental hospital, and he'd be left submerged in every deranged fantasy the real lunatics could dream up. He supposed he would eventually become one of them.

Of course Ray wouldn't let that happen. And like he said, if they had to rebuild everything from the ground up, they'd do it. They wouldn't have much of a choice.

A few more thoughts than he could take in comfortably stomped aross the border, and he was forced to fight them off.

Toby decided he needed a distraction. They hadn't gotten him into a hospital gown, not yet, so he had no reluctances about leaving the room. He'd track down Olivia and let her worry over him.

He cracked the door open first, and looked around a bit. Olivia, as luck would have it, was just down the hall. "Hey," he said, and approached.

Olivia lowered her clipboard. "Toby," she said. "Should you be up?"

Wearily, Toby shrugged. "Sure."

"Forty-five minutes ago you were practically semi-catatonic. Dr. Mercer sat in there with you for half and hour."

"I was there."

Olivia pressed a hand to his forehead in a mothering way, and shook her head. "What's going on? Don't tell me you don't know."

"I'm fine, Olivia, yeah? And I really don't know what that was." Toby smiled. He hoped he was charming.

_You look like you've been up twenty hours_, thought Olivia.

Here came a misstep.

"I'm EMS, Liv; I have been up eighteen." He leaned in. "Perhaps we could make it twenty. How'd you like to come back into that hospital room, eh?"

Olivia gave him a strange look. "Uh, yeah. Look, you should probably get changed. You've already been admitted, and even if you're sure you're all right I really need to keep an eye on you at least for tonight? That was serious, Toby, whatever that was."

Toby ran his hands down his face. He did want to sleep, but he wasn't sure he wanted to let his guard down that much. "Yeah, sure, I don't really have a choice. Could you give me something to get me to sleep?"

"If you need it."

"I do," he assured her.

The night moved on.

* * *

Negotiations were still running smoothly the next morning. With Ray's help, Toby managed to finagle his way out of another night in the hospital - there was nothing physically wrong with him, he was fine now, he'd keep Olivia informed, yes he'd take a few days off work. After an afternoon of MRIs and other tests, Toby climbed into Ray's car.

He shut the door and a thick vapor of privacy descended upon them. They could talk as they pleased. "How are you doing?" Ray asked.

"Better," said Toby.

Ray turned the key. The engine hummed. "I spoke with your partner - Oz, right?"

"Yeah."

"He told me you told him about you." They drove past multiple cars with bumper stickers like 'my kid has more chromosomes than yours' and 'fight the good fight: breast cancer survivor.' Toby shrugged and pressed his back into the leather.

"Yeah, sure. He noticed there was something odd going on and asked for the truth."

"And you gave it to him," said Ray. Toby got the impression he wasn't exactly pleased.

"He didn't believe me at first, but he reacted fine. His first question was about some girl."

Ray spun the wheel, and they pulled out of the lot. "If you trust him, that's your prerogative. I guess you're a bit too old to ask that you consult me first."

"Yes," said Toby firmly, closing his eyes. He reached a hand down between the seat and the door, and released the latch. The back fell two or three notches. He fell with it, then twisted his head around to face Ray. "Thanks for last night. I couldn't have come back on my own."

Ray took his eyes off the road long enough to look at Toby. "If anything like that happens again, even for a second, call me immediately."

"Okay."

"Do you have _any _idea what happened?"

Slightly disgruntled, Toby sat up without adjusting the seat back. He leaned instead against the car door. "No. I just lost it. One minute I was fine, loading some girl into the back of the ambulance, next I was curled up in the hospital like some kinda kid."

"What did you feel leading up to the incident?"

"Nothing unusual. Look, Ray, I just wanna go home and think things over."

Ray nodded. He knew he didn't actually have to say anything, and he was nearly certain Toby didn't want him to. So he just drove.

* * *

Toby almost had a beer. He pulled it from the fridge, popped the cap, raised it to his lips. Then he remembered the first time he drank as a teenager, back when his control was still shaky, and instead drained the thing down the sink.

What had been different recently? Of course he'd been using his gift more often. Less emphasis was placed on keeping thoughts out, more on getting information out of people. And there were the hits. He was still in the dark as to what sparked those.

With a muffled _oomph_, Toby fell onto his sofa. Ordinarily he hated being alone with his thoughts - or as alone as he ever was. Next door, Mrs. Stein's focus on the novel she was writing interfered with his own concentration. Directly above him the Bhatnagars were having the best sex they'd had in years, which was of course rather distracting.

Usually he was almost grateful for such disruptions in his natural thought process. Today, however, he was glad to have a chance to think. To sort things out. To ponder over what he'd say to Oz, how he'd deal with Olivia, and what he'd do if things went south and Ray couldn't bring him back again.

He passed the night doing this. He jumped through the mental hoops that were necessary for him to get to sleep each night. The next morning, when things were still running miraculously smoothly, he praised a generic deity and began to wonder what the hell he was going to do all day.

As with any morning, he spent fifteen minutes going through control exercises. First he sorted out which dreams had been his and which belonged to his neighbors. Next he determined how much of the barrier had slipped while he slept, and then he made up the difference. He reached out to each of his neighbors in turn while blocking out the rest, then blocked them all out as much as was possible. All this was customarily done without getting out of bed or turning on the lights. Afterwards he slid out from between his sheets and went about the more mundane aspects of his morning routine.

Oz called just as Toby was scraping corn flakes from the bottom of his bowl. He fished his phone out from his pocket and flipped it open. "Hey," he said.

"Hey, Toby. Look, I'm sorry I didn't visit you yesterday. Olivia wanted to finish up all her tests first, and then you left as soon as she was done . . ."

"No problem."

"What happened?" Oz asked. "I mean, you don't have some kind of psychic brain cancer, do you?"

Toby swiped his nose and stood up to place his bowl and spoon in the sink. "No, man, I'm fine. Weird fluke. So who's Ryder pairing you with till I get back?"

"I don't know yet. He wasn't sure yesterday and my shift's not for another four hours."

"Oh, right."

There was a shuffling noise on the other end. Oz cleared his throat. "Right, well. Would you mind if I came over for a bit? I'm kinda worried, dude."

Toby tilted his head towards the ceiling. Things were back in control, as far as he could tell, he could handle a visitor. "Sure. I wasn't really sure what I was going to do all morning, anyway."

"Great, all right, I'll be there in a minute."

Oz did not usually call to ask if he could come over. Half the time he didn't even bother knocking. If nothing else, the guy had excellent bedside manner. Perhaps he would be able to convince Toby the beer wasn't that bad of an idea.


	3. Part Three

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Listener _or any associated characters.

**Part Three**

For a while, things were more difficult than usual. Toby was grateful for the time Olivia insisted he take off work. Emotions always ran high in hospitals, and he simply lacked the energy to handle the onslaught. Every slightly elevated feeling coming from a neighbor's place or out on the street managed to slither into his head.

Mrs. Stein was angry with her husband for not supporting her writing. Two passersby recognized each other as former lovers. The Bhatnagars were feeling truly affectionate towards one another for the first time in ages.

He wasn't sure he'd be ready to return to EMS work in the short span of time he'd been given.

Ray called every day, as he had only done for the first year of their relationship. Both of them were worried all this would lead to another breakdown.

"I'm fine, Ray," Toby insisted. All the while his diplomats were working overtime.

_I quit my job so we could move to Toronto all I ever wanted to do was write a book the least he could do is leave me alone for an hour or two every day should've stayed in Kingston . . ._

_She really is a beautiful woman why haven't I been paying attention all this time I wonder if she still loves me . . ._

_Son of a bitch cheated me out of two hundred dollars I know he hid the cards in his sleeve . . ._

It didn't hurt, per say, to have a few more than normal thoughts sloshing around. But it was harder to concentrate, harder to think, harder to relax. And when a "few more than normal" became "an entire apartment building" or "a whole hospital," he most certainly was left wondering whether having his brain smashed with a jackhammer would be preferable.

All he could do was sit, run his exercises, and hope he'd be ready when it was time to return to work.

On the day in question Olivia actually called him. She who insisted he never call her, never visit, never do anything but talk at work, called him to be sure he was ready to do his job.

"I can't actually take much longer off. I have to eat, Liv." He downed the last of a cup of coffee and swerved into his bedroom. Mr. Stein was now just as angry as Mrs. Stein, and wouldn't stop chattering.

"You're not the only one I'm worried about. If you collapse again while working on someone -"

Toby pulled a uniform from his closet. He moved his cell phone to the other ear. "I told you, I'm fine. What can I do to make you feel better?"

Olivia sighed. "When's your shift start?"

"In an hour." He was hoping to have time to brace himself before going in.

"Come in. Let me check you over one last time."

Toby draped the uniform over his bed and ran a hand over his face. If he went in now, without properly preparing himself, he wasn't certain what would happen. But he hated the idea of Olivia worrying. "Fine. I really dunno what you're going to find, though."

"Neither do I. That's why I want to look."

They hung up and Toby cursed himself. This was probably a bad idea. He'd been hiding in his apartment for several days (and barely managing there) and now he expected to walk into a crowded building and do all right without any advance preparation?

But things were what they were. He finished packing for the day and called Oz to ask if he could get an early ride. Oz agreed - he had paperwork to do.

"Danko's really a very tense woman. You wouldn't know it looking at her, but it was like she was ready to jump off a cliff the entire time you were gone. We were working on a shooting victim and I swear she was moving so fast she was about a second away from creating a worm hole." The pumpkin jerked as they ran over a speed bump. None of this was helping Toby's concentration.

"Mm-hmm," he said. Oz glanced over.

"You okay, man?"

"Just trying to do something," said Toby.

_No telling with him probably watching porn in someone else's head I wonder if he can do that . . ._

Toby's head jerked up. "Hey." He felt Oz try and remember what he'd been thinking a few seconds previous. Oz smiled sheepishly.

"Hey, man. You know I don't care. You're like my brother. My white, telepathic, entirely-too-skinny-to-be-related-to-me brother."

"We were separated at birth," Toby agreed. "I'm just trying to concentrate, okay?"

Oz sniffed, shrugged, twisted the steering wheel. "Sure."

He was trying to identify every individual mind around him and block them out in turn. Man in car a lane away, worried about his kid's braces. Woman in white sedan, fantasizing about meeting George Clooney. Teenage pedestrian, figuring out how to get more marijuana.

(The idea behind the exercise was less about actually building the barrier, more about maintaining control in a crowded area.)

Oz dropped him off in front of the hospital, before heading off to the paramedics' entrance. Toby could already hear the braying of human voices inside. Patients were in pain. Doctors and nurses were fatigued.

Toby stood for a moment, making the barrier as thick as possible before walking through the door. The hordes _would _stop and listen. They wouldn't be allowed to surge across the border.

He navigated the hallways and wards with practiced ease. Before he reached Olivia, however, he ran into Charlie.

"Long time no see," she greeted, more friendly than he remembered her. "Look, Toby, I don't know if you have time, but I have a shooting victim. He's not telling us anything, but this looks like it might be connected to a gang we've been having trouble with. You think you could help?"

Toby adjusted the duffle bag on his shoulder. He ran two fingers across his eyebrow. "Ah, y'know, Detective Marks, I've been having some trouble lately."

Charlie raised an eyebrow. "What are you talking about?"

"With my, you know." He tapped his forehead. "Harder to keep things out once I let them in. So I don't really want to risk it. I really do want to help, but I just can't."

She gave him an odd look. _I actually ask him for help and he won't give it he must have a good reason . . . _"Uh, sure. Well if you feel up to it in the next couple of days, just call me."

Toby made the gesture of tipping his hat. "See you later, Charlie."

He caught a "glimpse" of the man in question. The guy was too wrapped up in his own pain to give Toby any useful information, so he kept on walking. Olivia was waiting, and he only had so much time before he had to be on the clock.

* * *

Elsewhere, things were quieter. It was always best to set up in a peaceful locale. He'd had great luck finding one - in New Delhi and Beijing it had been nearly impossible. It had always been a question of his why so many of them lived in large cities, although none of them knew. Perhaps one day he'd find out.

The doorbell rang - pizza girl. He opened the door, fished through his wallet. Money wasn't really an issue; he could've gone out and eaten some fancy Italian pasta if he'd liked. But he had to think, and that was hard to do in a crowded restaurant.

He worked best when things were quiet.

* * *

Olivia could find no fault with Toby's physical health. She had to agree he _looked _better. Toby kept himself from reminding her that wasn't saying much. But his reflexes were solid, and he was displaying no neurological symptoms. So she let him go to work.

"You're sure?" she asked.

"Positive," said Toby, buttoning his shirt. He wasn't positive, but he didn't really want to take another day off work.

_If you collapse again I'll make sure you don't get up._

Toby smiled as charmingly as he could and patted her shoulder on his way out. Even without telepathy, he would've felt her watching him as he left.

He made it just in time for his shift. After that, work went well. He picked up a few stray thoughts, and was perhaps his attention was a tiny bit divided, but no one died.

As they were getting changed, Toby said, "You think I was off my game today?"

Oz pulled a t-shirt over his head. He leaned into the lockers, prompting a rather violent rattling. "Naw, man, not really. You did seem a little distracted."

"Yeah."

"But not while we were doing anything important. Don't worry about it."

Toby nodded. He hunched his bag back onto his shoulder. In his fatigue, the hordes were clamoring more loudly than usual. "Let's go," he said.

"Sure thing."

The night passed, as did several days, but things did not get any easier. Every second his concentration had to be just as intense as the last. In order to maintain his job performance, he had to allow in a few more thoughts than would ordinarily be comfortable, particularly given the circumstances. He spent a good deal of his time with people thinking things like _Oh my god my leg my leg _or _Who'll take care of Katie Jesus god shit_ _I can't breathe_.

Ray was at a loss for both an explanation and a solution. He suggested Toby spend more time building the barrier in the morning, and to use his lunch time for the same purpose. Toby did. Nothing changed.

Olivia remained worried. Oz, too, but he had the good grace not to show it.

After a week without any release or respite, Toby developed a gnawing headache. Tension coiled in his chest.

He was beginning to suspect that something would have to break.


	4. Part Four

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Listener_ or any associated characters.

**Part Four**

After two weeks of constant strain, Toby was tired. Not in the "long, hard day at work" sense of the word. That kind of fatigue could be slept off, or lifted with a day off and a beer. Every spare crumb of energy was being used to bargain with the hordes. _That _kind of tired seeped down into his every neuron, invaded his every cell. He was at times unsure which of the thoughts in his head belonged to him.

Something was bound to crack. Something did.

It was the very end of a particularly excruciating shift. Toby had finally decided to request some more time off, and was looking forward desperately to getting away from everything.

He and Oz received one last call from dispatch, alerting them of a car accident two blocks north. The car had been flipped, and two men were unconscious and bleeding.

Upon arrival, they grabbed their gear from the back and set to work. Toby was grateful the men were unconscious. Bystanders, while distracting, usually attached less emotion to their thoughts than the victims themselves.

They managed to get both men safely out of the car. Toby was checking his man's pupils when he fluttered towards semi-consciousness. A long, incoherent moan of pain uncoiled like a snake in the man's head - and Toby was floored. He fell back onto the asphalt.

Suddenly he wasn't sure whose bones had been broken. Did _his_ head that much? He was pretty sure it did, with or without the man's interference. It was as though someone had plugged a car battery into his brain. The bystanders' thoughts began to crackle at a greater volume, and he realized what would happen if he didn't throw all his intellectual weight against the onslaught.

If he was overwhelmed again, he wouldn't come back.

So overpowering was that fear that Toby remained braced against the barrier even as the man in front of him quietly slipped away.

* * *

"You do understand the severity of this." Ryder leaned over his desk. "You literally just sat there and watched as a man died in front of you."

Toby drummed his fingers against his armrest. Ryder's mind drummed against his. _Logan's usually so good out there much better than Bey I don't understand what the hell he was thinking does this have anything to do with his incident a few weeks ago he has seemed tired recently _. . .

"I froze," said Toby. "I don't know what happened, sir."

Ryder fell back into his chair, causing it to roll back a few inches. He pulled himself back with the edge of his desk. "All right, I need to know because this is important: does this have anything to do with your problem two weeks ago?"

"I don't know. Dr. Fawcett couldn't find anything wrong with me."

"Are you sure there was no way you could have anticipated this?"

Toby wasn't, but he knew what was coming and he didn't need anything else piled on top of him. "Yes, sir."

"Get Fawcett to evaluate you again, this time more thoroughly. I'm placing you on leave for at least two weeks. And - Logan?" Ryder sighed. He massed his forehead. "I like you. If Bey had done something like this, I would've kicked him to the curb. You've always seemed very responsible. I'm sure there was a very good reason for this."

"Thank you, sir."

"We're lucky. This guy wasn't married, he didn't have any children. His mother's got stage four Alzheimer's and is living in a nursing home."

"No one to sue, you mean." Toby felt a pang of guilt. He probably deserved to be sued, to lose his job - but the stress of the whole thing would probably kill him.

"Not this time. Get yourself checked out. Rest up. And don't come back until you are absolutely certain this will not happen again. I'll try and keep the storm off your back."

"I appreciate that, sir."

Ryder stood up, and Toby followed suit. "Don't. You screwed up, Logan."

Toby nodded slightly, and glanced at the floor. "I know."

"Go."

Toby took the shortest path out of the hospital, and found Oz waiting in the pumpkin. He slid in and fell back against the seat. "Drive," he said. Oz twisted the key.

"What happened out there, man?"

"I'd rather not talk about this right now."

Oz glanced over, but didn't say another word. He was even considerate to try and veer his thoughts from the topic, although he wasn't entirely successful: _I wonder if there'll be anything good on television tonight Olivia's gonna freak out crap no think about that new sitcom what was it called Toby'd better be okay . . ._

They drove to Toby's building in silence, and Toby left the car and trudged up the stairs to his apartment without so much as a thank you.

It was actually happening, he realized. His gift was interfering with his ability to live his life. He couldn't even do his job anymore. If this kept up, he'd have to quit. He'd have to quit and after that he wasn't sure what he could do, let alone what he would.

And he was so tired. He was tired and alone and had just killed a guy. Some man who had never done anything to him had died because of his insane idea that he could somehow live a normal life -

Toby shook off that last idea. He would phone Ray in the morning. They'd get everything sorted out.

* * *

The handyman was quite happy to accept a supplement to his paycheck; it was only a matter of finding the right person to do the job. He wouldn't be able to do it himself forever, after all. Changes in the division of labor were the hallmarks of growth in a small business, even one as strange as his.

He stepped out into the bracing cold. He pulled on a pair of recently purchased gloves, and shivered in the wind and the menagerie sounds of the city. Everything smelled of snow and mechanical waste. He was glad to be returning to his room.

Once he was safely inside a taxi, he allowed himself to think of the next stages of his plan. There were fewer and fewer things left he had to do himself, but some things never changed. In a week or two (less, if his client responded quickly enough) he'd get to the crux of things, and he most certainly was not going to divide the last labor.

* * *

Ray knocked again, then crossed his arms and waited for Toby to answer. As if the situation wasn't concerning enough, that morning Toby had called to inform Ray that he had been distracted enough to let a man die. Knowing what he did about Toby's drive to do right - especially with regards to his ability - everything about this just set Ray's teeth on edge.

The suddenness, the lack of a comprehensive explanation, the fact that Toby's condition was not responding to their usual exercises . . . Something wasn't right. Ray had been studying the machinations of Toby's gift for nearly twenty years, and something wasn't right.

Perhaps he was sick? Some kind of disease that only affected his telepathy? There was no way to be sure without putting the secret at risk.

At last Toby opened the door, looking as worn as Ray had ever seen him. "Sorry," he said, and gestured weakly for Ray to come in. Ray pulled his scarf from his neck and placed it on a table near the door.

Worn, he decided, was not an adequate word. Toby's eyes and skin were both lusterless and dry looking. He was thinner. All in all, he looked as though he'd just returned from the war.

"Toby, you look awful," said Ray. Toby shrugged and walked over to the sofa, which he promptly fell into.

"I couldn't sleep last night. Too many," he said. "But they're the only thing keeping me awake right now."

Ray sat rather more delicately in a nearby chair. "And nothing's working."

"No."

"Do you think this could be connected to the hits?"

Toby closed his eyes and let a hand fall off the edge of the sofa. For a moment, he looked like he had simply died. "I don't know. I haven't actually gotten any recently."

Ray _hmm_'d and bit his lip.

"If you were right about the hits before, and they really are the natural evolution of my ability, you don't think this could just be what's in store for me, do you?"

"I don't know. We don't have any frame of reference, here."

"I can't go back to that, Ray. I can't live like that again." Toby reached up to rub his face.

Ray inhaled. He probably remembered that period of Toby's life better than Toby did - if that was hell for a nine-year-old boy who could barely understand that there was anything else to be had, it would be the ninth circle for a twenty-eight-year-old man who had painstakingly built a life for himself.

"Trust me, I already figured that out," Toby said. "What are we going to do?"

"We need to figure out what's causing this. I don't know what we can do until we know that," said Ray, and sighed. "I have a few ideas, but I'm not certain how we could prove any of them, especially without risking your safety."

Toby looked up. "You think I might be sick? What would you test for?"

"_I_ can't test for anything. That's why this is going to be difficult."

Toby's head fell back against the sofa's armrest and he scowled. That expression, requiring too much energy to maintain, quickly melted away. Ray noticed how pale his friend was, how the bags under his eyes were purpling. "I can't keep them out much longer Ray," Toby said quietly.

"Keep trying," said Ray, but he felt cruel to ask it.

* * *

When Olivia heard Toby had been put on leave, and under what circumstances, it was the final straw. Every worry she had pent up, every concern, sloshed to the surface. She just about dove for the phone until she began to wonder whether disturbing him would be the best idea. It frustrated her to no end how little he told her, but in this case that was probably his right.

He had just been so _wrong _recently.

When he called to make an appointment for an examination, she nearly leapt out of her skin with relief. But the conversation ended abruptly, leaving her to mark the time in her date book and go on worrying.

She hoped the day of his appointment would bring about some kind of catharsis. When Toby showed up, however, she began to realize this would only further her stress: he appeared exhausted and his expression was one of inexplicable concentration.

"Toby," she said, guiding him to the table with a hand on his shoulder blade, "are you okay?"

"Not really," he said. Outside, there was a commotion with patient's wheelchair, and Toby winced.

Olivia caught this, but was unsure as to the meaning. "All right. I'm going to ask you some questions, and I've scheduled a few tests. You up to that?"

Toby sighed. "Sure."

"Good. Have you been experiencing headaches recently?" Olivia positioned her pen.

He hesitated. "Yes," he said after a beat.

They ran through several more questions. Toby delayed before answering most of them, as if he was uncertain whether or not to respond at all. Olivia knew he was secretive, but this was odd even for him. Still, she discovered he'd been experiencing nausea and sweating, which at least added two more pieces to the puzzle.

She ran all the tests she could think of, wishing the results might be acquired sooner. A high school teacher she once had would insist she narrow down her diagnostic criteria; unfortunately, she had no criteria to narrow down. Nothing she could think of quite fit.

Some critical piece of information was missing. She just had to find it.


	5. Part Five

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Listener _or any associated characters.

**Part Five**

Olivia's shift ended without further claim to her interest; she took care of her patients efficiently and skillfully and left without a second thought. By the time she reached her car, she was completely immersed in her problem. There was no way she could treat Toby if she didn't know everything that was wrong. He wouldn't tell her, for whatever reason it was he didn't tell her things. Thus, given her obligations as a doctor, she had to find out some other way.

There was of course the matter of figuring out what that other way would be. Oz? No, she was pretty sure Toby didn't tell Oz anything, either. Toby didn't really have any other friends, except . . .

Dr. Mercer. Of course.

Once home, she opened her computer and plugged the name "Raymond Mercer" into her usual search engine. Up popped many results: Raymond Mercer, author of _The Human Supercomputer: The New Science of the Brain_ and _Understanding Thought_. Raymond Mercer, internationally successful lecturer. Raymond Mercer, chairman of many things and general big shot at the University of Toronto.

Not exactly the kind of guy to work with a messed up foster kid. Olivia could understand him helping Toby now, after they had developed a decades-long relationship. But what had been the motivation before? With a little more searching, she uncovered that Dr. Mercer had been doing roughly the same kind of work twenty years ago as he was now. As with many things Toby, something just wasn't adding up.

Olivia sighed, and closed her laptop. She would contact Mercer in the morning, when it would be feasibly polite. Until then, her anxiety would have to go without a channel.

She slept fitfully. A number of dreams that would go unremembered in the morning involved Toby's death. When she woke up, she was left with a residual grief she could neither explain nor shake off.

After she ate breakfast, she forced herself to watch an hour or two of television. Etiquette dictated she could not call until later. If Olivia was going to go behind a friend's back and assault his privacy, she would be polite about it.

Finally, the clock rolled around to an appropriate hour and she picked up her cell phone. She still had Mercer's number after calling him for Toby three weeks prior.

The phone rang thrice before Mercer picked up. "Hello?"

"Uh - Dr. Mercer. This is Dr. Fawcett, do you remember me?"

"Is Toby all right?" came the immediate question.

Olivia bit her lip. "Ah, yes. At least as far as I know. But he's still not feeling well. I've run all the tests I could think of, and I'm not finding anything."

"Yes?" Mercer replied after a moment.

"So I was thinking. You were able to help him before."

"I've tried this time. Nothing I can think of is working." Mercer's voice hinted at great emotion.

Olivia ran a hand through her hair, clearing it from her eyes. It suddenly dawned on her how gross an invasion of privacy this was. She inhaled, and managed to convince herself that Toby was sick and the normal rules didn't apply. "I'm getting the feeling Toby isn't telling me everything. I can't help him if I don't really know what's wrong."

"Perhaps you should take this up with Toby."

Everything she was begged her to meekly back off at this point. That was what she would have done under normal circumstances. But her chest was still being gnawed away by worry and the residue of last night's forgotten dreams. "I've been taking things up with Toby since we met, Dr. Mercer. He always finds some way to change the topic. I really think you know what's going on, and - I can't just sit here and know he's getting worse."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "Fine. You can find me at the university today until six."

Olivia swallowed. "Thank you."

They hung up. Olivia inhaled. There were details to be worked out, details which she tried to turn her mind to. The point wasn't that she might be finding out _the big thing _today. She would rather not find it out today - not with her kind-of boyfriend suffering somewhere else in the city.

So instead of her curiosity or her apprehension, Olivia focused on how she would get off work. How she would handle herself around Dr. Mercer. How she would handle herself around Toby if she did find out the big thing. Details.

* * *

It was always harder to keep an eye on his clients once they retreated into their homes, but he didn't worry about that quite so much anymore. He'd developed a good feeling for timing, so the only matter to tend to was keeping track of where they went. His current case had left his apartment once in three days, only to keep an appointment at the hospital. There had been one visitor, who happened to be the all-important psychologist: he would have to talk to Ray Mercer at some point in the near future, but not before he spoke to the client.

He'd have to that soon, he realized. He sighed and stretched out and listened to the hum of the air conditioner. There was a reason for doing this beyond profit. There had to be. It wasn't profit - he was scraping upper middle class at best. Thrill, perhaps. He was working on the fringes of the world most people knew and understood. In the space beyond his work, there was only absolute truth, unmarred by perception. He was as close to the abyss as any man or woman would ever be.

On top of that there was the travel, and of course the feeling of being embroiled in conspiracy. There was him, there was _them_, and then there were his clients. Three sides of a magnificent, constantly shifting puzzle.

He slid a book from his chest onto his bedspread. He sipped a cup of coffee, half-forgotten on his nightstand, and found it to be cold.

A well-developed instinct clicked inside of him. It was time to pay the client a visit.

* * *

Olivia arrived at the department at four, and drove for several minutes before locating the right building. She wasn't certain if Dr. Mercer would be available, but she was willing to wait.

Luckily, he had just gotten out of class. After a rather stiff greeting on the walkway, he led her to his office. She took a seat in front of his desk, and he slid into his chair.

"Have you spoken with Toby recently?" Mercer asked. He balled his hands, placed them in front of him.

Olivia's stomach tightened. "Not since he came in for an exam two days ago."

"Mm. He's not doing terribly well."

Mercer leaned back. There was a weary look on his face, as though even his frown was costing him time too precious to use. Olivia straightened up.

"Is he presenting any new symptoms?"

Mercer shrugged. "His old ones are simply getting worse. I need you to understand something, Dr. Fawcett."

"Yes?"

"I can't tell you exactly what's wrong with him. Or, rather, I can't tell you what his symptoms mean. If you can't work within those limitations, I don't know if I can help you."

Olivia ignored the small part of her that was disappointed. She swallowed, and said, "I'll do whatever you need me to if it will help Toby."

Mercer nodded, and inhaled. "I will tell you if there's absolutely no other way. And just in case it comes to that, I need you to assure me of something else."

"Whatever it is, I'll do it."

He looked at her very gravely. "Keep your head."

This puzzled Olivia, but it seemed like such a minor request. "Of course."

Mercer massaged his forehead, then looked up. "All right. You might have to violate some hospital policies, but this is important. I need you to check him for any viruses, bacterial infections, toxins. It doesn't matter."

"I've already run a full -"

"Then check for something unusual. I'm not an M.D. I can't help you there. And don't make him come to the hospital."

Olivia nodded. She thought about asking why, but realized she probably shouldn't. "It might be difficult to -" She cut herself off. "I'll do it."

Mercer attempted to smile at her. "I appreciate your willingness to fly blind. I do think Toby will tell you someday."

Olivia nodded again. She hoped so, at least partly for the reason than it would mean Toby would be okay "someday."

They capped off their conversation politely, and Olivia left.

* * *

Around the time Toby's long bones started to ache, he heard a knock on the door. He struggled for a few long seconds to determine whether he was hearing the knock or _hearing_ the knock. When he decided it was the former, he fought his way to his feet and shuffled over to greet his guest.

He expected Ray, and his brain was too charred for him to identify precisely which set of thoughts were at the door. So it was much to his surprise that he saw Olivia, medical bag in hand.

"I need to run some more tests, and I didn't want to drag you all the way to the hospital," she explained. Toby looked at her for a moment. An image of Ray popped into his head. With his one spare brain cell, he managed to wonder at the thought's meaning.

"Come in," he said.

Olivia came in. "Just some more blood and a urine sample," she said. "And some hair."

Toby shrugged. She handed him a container for his urine first. It was hard to pee with such a surfeit of human voices thrumming inside his skull, but he achieved it, and made it back to the living room with tripping over himself.

Olivia clipped out some of his hair and drew his blood, then stored the samples as carefully as she could. Toby looked up at her from his perch in a kitchen chair, and she pulled his hand into hers. He felt the rub of his sweat against her palms.

"Whatever it is, you can tell me," she said, "even if you don't want to right now." Then she grabbed her bag and left.

With great effort, he stood up and began the death march back to the couch. Halfway there, he was hit with a wave of nausea and had to steady himself against a table. That was when the second knock came.

He assumed it was Olivia again. "Just come in," he said as loudly as he could manage, which wasn't very.

The knock persisted. Toby braced himself, and moved to the door. "Liv, you can just come in -" Upon pulling it open, he realized his caller was not Olivia, and he shut up.

The man smiled slightly. He held out a hand. "I've heard you're having some trouble, Mr. Logan."

Toby couldn't shake the man's hand without losing the support of the doorframe. He blinked several times. "Uh," he said.

"Stephen Quickley," the man introduced.

"Who are you?" Toby tried to pull his focus towards the thoughts of this one man without losing his grasping hold on negotiations. No luck.

Quickley retracted his hand, and smiled again. "I'm here to help you. I've met, well, several people in your position. I think I can help."

"Are you serious?" Toby swayed a little as he said it. Quickley nodded, then glanced into Toby's apartment.

"Is this a conversation you want to have in the hall?" he asked.

Toby hesitated. Under normal circumstances, he would have politely turned the man away and called Charlie. But under normal circumstances, he would have slept more than two hours in the past three days. Under normal circumstances, he would not be losing the fight to keep the thoughts of half the city out of his head.

He let Quickley inside.


	6. Part Six

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Listener _or any associated characters.

**Part Six**

It took Toby a while to notice, but Quickley had arrived with a briefcase. He laid it out carefully on Toby's kitchen table, and gestured for Toby to sit in front of him. Toby lowered himself stiffly into the seat, eyeing the case with some suspicion.

He really wasn't certain what was going on, and he didn't have the mind left to figure it out. The Bhatnagars were fighting, Mrs. Stein was writing, three burly men from the other side of the city had somehow gotten into a brawl on this end. A man was meeting his boyfriend downstairs. Two teenage girls were discussing boys while their mothers discussed politics. Nothing made sense, and all he'd heard Quickley say was that he might be able to help.

Quickley took the chair across from Toby. "I guess this isn't really the best time for an in-depth explanation," he said. Toby just looked at him. "All right." Quickley opened the brief case, which contained a smaller container. Quickley opened that, and inside was a syringe. "This is a drug with a really long name, which I just call Q. Simpler that way."

Toby looked down at it. The drug, Q, was perfectly clear. His first thought, coherent enough to trouble him, was of poison - at which point he realized he didn't care. If he died, at least this would be over.

He _wanted _to be mistrustful. He wanted so very badly to turn this man out right now and fix the problem himself. But there was no room left in his head for such extraneous thoughts and feelings. It was as though his telepathy attracted unwanted and destructive houseguests. Mrs. Stein and the Bhatnagars and the three burly men had moved in and eaten all his food.

"What'll it do?" he asked.

Quickley extracted the phial from its carrier, and flicked it once, twice. "Quiet things down."

That was all Toby needed.

* * *

Olivia ran her tests. Every disease, every toxin, every drug she could think of, she tested for. Mercer hadn't given her much to work with. She wasn't at all certain what she was looking for, but she got caught up in looking for it.

Caught up enough, in fact, to forget about the tests she had run previously. When the results came in, she pulled away long enough to read them through.

Something came up. She didn't know if it meant anything, at least in this context, but it was something.

She called Dr. Mercer.

* * *

Toby barely felt the needle pierce his skin. Compared to the ache grinding away at his every muscle and bone, and the bones of others, there was nothing to feel.

(Arthritic woman two floors down struggling to stand up, man nursing hangover coming up the stairs, girl curled up with menstrual cramps - how much physical pain could one building contain?)

"It'll take a few minutes," said Quickley. He replaced the phial, and snapped various containers shut. "Mind if I use your toilet?"

Toby gestured towards his bathroom. He folded his arms on the tabletop, then nested his head between them. His feet and calves were prickling with pins and needles, and he still wasn't sure if they were his pins and needles, or someone else's. The miasma infecting his neurons had yet to lift. This was an incredibly stupid decision, he thought.

Then, in and amidst everything else, he began to hear a static buzz, which eventually became a crackle. Images began to blur, voices began to fade . . . There was a sudden absence of sound. Apart from the drone of the A/C and the flushing of a toilet, Toby could hear nothing.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and pulled the gates shut as tightly as he could, afraid of losing the effect. When he failed to feel even the slightest hint of a barrage, he probed cautiously for something. Anything. It was as though everyone in Toronto had suddenly disappeared.

Toby opened his eyes, but of course all he could see was the table.

"I've heard it's strange," said Quickley above him, and Toby jumped. His feet hit the ground and his chair toppled.

"What -"

"Sorry," said Quickley.

Toby inhaled, exhaled. The adrenaline dwindled in his system, and the haze of sleep deprivation returned. "What did you do to me?" he asked.

"Fixed you," Quickley said, "at least for now. Q takes several days to wear off. You should be okay for awhile."

Toby righted his chair, and reclaimed his seat. There was something hollow about Quickley's voice, about his presence: some resonance he hadn't even noticed was there was now missing.

But he was too exhausted to think too deeply. Without the unceasing work of maintaining his barrier, he found himself able to appreciate fully his own fatigue.

"I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner," said Quickley. Toby looked up at him. Quickley's image had no depth, no assurance it was anything but a phantom of Toby's imagination.

"Why did you come here?" asked Toby.

Quickley ran a hand through his hair, which was a brown color lacking entirely in intensity. "You haven't slept in several days, am I right? You probably need to."

Toby stood up. Even his movements, his thoughts, felt unnatural. "I need to know what you just did to me."

"Look, you have two options: go on living like _this_, or go on living like _that_. I'd rather you choose the former."

"Why?" Toby took a step forward, but he doubted he looked menacing.

"Because I like to think of myself as a decent human being. I've done this before; I know you're tired."

Toby staggered as he moved closer. "Who are you?"

"You should've been this insistent before I jabbed you. C'mon, now. I'll talk with you in a few days, and you'll see. You'll get used to it." Quickley smiled, gathered up his briefcase, and took several steps towards the door. His movement was ghostlike.

Before Toby could say anything else, Quickley left. Toby moved to follow him, to get answers. He reached the door, and had his hand on the doorknob - but he hurt, all the connections he was used to seeing the world seemed to have gone slack. There could be anyone, anything, in that hallway. Every person in the city might be as wraithlike and intangible as Quickley had seemed.

No. He needed to know what was going on.

He opened the door, stepped into the hallway. It felt eerie and deserted, and any noises he could hear in the various apartments sounded distant, sourceless and without context. Looking in the direction of the stairwell, Quickley was gone.

Toby ignored the complaints of his muscles and moved down the hall as quickly as possible. He reached the door to the stairwell, and passed through it. Instinctively, he reached out to find Quickley's thoughts: the lack of _any _response was chilling. Toby's throat began to tighten.

He jogged down the stairs. Every step echoed hollowly. A man, another apparition, passed him on his way down. Toby pushed through the exit, and stared out onto the empty lot. Quickley was gone. Toby was too tired to go any further.

He pressed his back into the doorframe and slid to the ground. His head swam. His heart hammered.

Since he wasn't entirely certain whether he passed out or not, he wasn't sure how much time passed between that moment and the moment Ray arrived. He noticed for the first time what a nice car Ray drove. The thought drifted like a dead goldfish in his brain.

Ray ran up, shook him, but he was as otherworldly as everyone else. "Toby! Toby - are you all right?"

Toby looked up. He pressed a hand to his brow ridge and took Ray's proffered hand. "What?"

"Are you all right?"

"I can't hear them anymore, Ray." Toby fell off balance momentarily, then righted himself.

Ray placed a steadying hand against Toby's shoulder. "Do you mean your telepathy has stopped working?"

Toby closed his eyes. Silence, he realized, could be deafening.

Ray looked him up and down, and added another hand to the middle of Toby's back. He reached a silent understanding with himself, which Toby could no longer understand. "Come on."

He helped Toby back up the stairs and in his apartment. He led him to bed like a child, and Toby immediately collapsed.

He slept for sixteen hours. In his dreams, he could still hear, although the hordes were less insistent and his diplomats were paid more. A man plugged in an air freshener and told him how lovely he looked in that Elton John costume: it was one of those dreams.

After he reached a sufficient level of consciousness, Toby began his habitual morning routine. How many dreams belonged to him? All of them, he realized rather happily. Perhaps that was a good sign. How much of the barrier had slipped? He reached out, feeling around for Mrs. Stein's thoughts, Mr. Bhatnagar's . . .

He couldn't find them.

He opened his eyes. Something inconceivably essential was missing from the space around his body. Air that usually hummed with humanity had become a soundless vacuum. Toby grasped at his sheets, struggled to find his way to the floor. He gasped - in, out, in, out. The world had disappeared around him and he needed to see it. To make sure it existed in some form, even a diminished one.

For the first time in his life, Toby Logan was alone.


	7. Part Seven

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Listener _or any associated characters.

**Part Seven**

Toby pulled his bedroom door open violently, then let it swing free into a collision with his bedroom wall. He himself practically fell into the main room, then righted himself and twisted around to view the entire apartment. Ray, who had apparently been waiting for him, now approached.

"Toby?" said Ray. Toby reached out to touch Ray's shoulder. His sense of touch, at least, had not been muted, and the feeling was an immense relief.

"It stopped working," said Toby, answering a question from many hours previous. Ray was stunned for half a second, but only at the confirmation. He appeared thoughtful. There was of course no way of confirming this.

"What happened?" Ray asked.

That was not a simple question to answer.

The world which Toby knew had been deserted. Its atmosphere was eroding and the vast nothingness of space was creeping in. The hordes that had once ravaged the planet's surface were gone. The diplomats and missionaries who bribed them with trinkets were gone.

The sensation of isolation was more tangible than the man standing in front of him.

Toby forced himself to look Ray in the eyes: they had the same spark of life, and of human intelligence. No, he thought, he wasn't alone, and he composed himself.

He inhaled. "There was a man, uh, Quickley. Stephen Quickley. He showed up at the door after Olivia left - she stopped by to do another exam - and I was so out of it I let him in."

Ray's eyebrows furrowed.

"He said he'd encountered other people with my problem." Toby rubbed at his forehead. A headache still gnawed on the fringes of his nerves.

"This is troubling, to say the least." Ray looked at him for a moment, evaluating something. "Toby . . ."

Toby pulled his hand away from his face. He adjusted his shoulders, and tried to force himself to be as all right as possible.

". . . Dr. Fawcett found a drug in your system."

"What?" Toby had anticipated several things that Ray might say. That hadn't been one of them. He had, actually, completely forgotten Olivia's tests.

"Your serotonin levels are strange, almost like you'd been taking an SSRI. And a drug that behaves very much like one is present in your system." Ray paused. "I thought it would be odd for you to take something like that without consulting me, considering the concerns I've voiced to you about psychoactive medication."

Toby shrugged, and modified his posture in the process. The air didn't seem to fit correctly around his body. "I didn't take it. Especially not recently."

"All of this seems very coincidental," said Ray.

Toby crossed his arms. "What do you think? Quickley's involved in this somehow?"

"I don't know enough about the situation, but it seems likely." Ray glanced towards the door, as if hoping Quickley might make a conveniently timed visit. "Toby. Either way, he knows enough about you to show up at precisely the right moment, and he's in possession of a drug which can knock out your ability. I don't like this."

"You think I do?" said Toby. His grip on his body tightened, and he swallowed. "Everything feels so _wrong_."

This was more familiar territory for Ray. Toby could see that even without reading his mind. "What do you mean?"

"It's all . . . hollow." He gestured towards Ray, then quickly retracted his hand back to his chest. "It's like you're not even there, and I'm looking right at you."

"Is this just because you can't hear me?"

Toby looked down. Taking his eyes off Ray was the strangest thing: if he wasn't looking directly at him, it was like he wasn't even there. "There's something else missing. It's just gone."

Ray inhaled. He didn't speak for a moment - it was one of those pregnant pauses where, ordinarily, the conversation would simply continue in Ray's head. Ray seemed to realize he needed to speak a second too late to avoid unnerving Toby further.

"If it was a drug that did this, it will wear off eventually."

"In a few days, he said." Toby shivered slightly. "Everything is still wrong."

Ray nodded, obviously trying to recalibrate his approach: after all these years, he was still on the job. Toby's shrink first, everything else second. Perhaps that was why Ray had eschewed a second marriage.

"We need to find Quickley," said Toby after a beat. "Or wait for him to come to us."

"Yes," said Ray. "It seems unlikely he'd just disappear."

"All of this is unlikely," said Toby.

After several more words regarding the absence of Toby's telepathy, and the affect this was having on him, the two men decided they needed to eat. The fridge and cabinets were devoid of anything worth eating either at that particular time of day or as a meal. Pickles, ketchup, and a box of cheap cereal nine tenths of the way empty did not a breakfast make.

The diner they chose was nearly empty, which suited Toby. Being surrounded by ghosts was not his idea of a good time. Ray still suggested Toby still call over Oz or Olivia in order to adjust.

"They're both probably worried about you," said Ray.

Toby decided to make up his mind on that one later.

* * *

Ray eventually was forced to leave Toby alone. He had a class to give, and he thought it would be a good idea to allow Toby to adjust without interference.

The entire situation was deeply disturbing. He could still remember the man who brought Toby in, and his warnings regarding not letting "them" find him. If this Stephen Quickley was one of the people Frank Cardea had been so desperately afraid of, Ray wasn't sure what he would be able to do.

The class went as well as it could. Ray retreated to his office to think and to worry. Much to his surprise, he had a visitor.

The man stood up, and offered his hand. "Stephen Quickley," he greeted. "I guess Toby's mentioned me."

Ray froze. He glanced at the filing cabinet where he kept Toby's information. "He has," said Ray cautiously. He edged over to take a seat behind his desk. Quickley lowered his hand.

"You probably think I'm one of them. He wouldn't still be here if I was." Quickley reclaimed his seat. "I'm just here to help."

"With what?" Ray asked. He stole a second glance over to the filing cabinet.

Quickley looked him over for a moment. Ray returned in kind; he wanted to know what the man looked like. Eyes an ugly shade of green. Arching eyebrows. A narrow nose. "This happens when they get older," said Quickley. "Their abilities get stronger, but they can't keep up."

"Really," said Ray. "You know, we found a drug in Toby's system - an SSRI - and we don't know how it got there."

"I wouldn't know anything about that," said Quickley smoothly.

"Really," said Ray.

Quickley smiled. He ran a hand through his hair. "That has nothing to do with this, anyway. And you're missing the point - I can help with the problem. I have a drug which can regulate the various chemicals involved in his, well, you know."

"Like an SSRI affects serotonin."

"I guess." Quickley smiled again. "Now, I call this drug Q. For 'quiet', not Quickley. That'd be kind of narcissistic."

Ray leaned back. "What's it actually called?"

Quickley told him, then quickly moved on. "It costs around two hundred dollars per dose," he said, "but I gave Toby the one for free. It wouldn't really have been fair to get him to agree to something like that when he was so messed up."

"Toby doesn't have the money for something that expensive, and I highly doubt this is covered by his medical benefits."

"Which is why I'm talking to you," said Quickley affably. "I've done this in eight different countries around the world. New Delhi, New York, Sydney. I travel quite a bit, I guess you can imagine. I need to support that somehow."

Ray folded his hands on his desktop, and gave Quickley as steely a look as he could manage. "I need more information."

Quickley shrugged, and smiled yet again. "Whatever works for you. I'll be back in a few days."

Quickley stood up and left, leaving Ray to his initial pursuit.

* * *

When Toby was a child, some years after he met Ray, a number people thought he was creepy. A smaller number actually gave voice to this thought, but none of them had to. It was true he was a strange boy. He knew things he shouldn't. His biases were oddly colored and his reactions often apropos of nothing. Less observant people simply didn't like his eyes.

It was the eyes that bothered him now. If he looked closely enough, he could still see the life in them. He could still see the heat. Heat, sometimes like burning wads of newspaper, sometimes like half-melted candle wax: all of it was in the eyes. On normal days he could feel it in a person's entire body. People radiated life, enough so that he could catch it, feel it, even hear it.

Now it seemed as though they were all trapped. Tiny bursts of warmth and emotion, trapped inside cold shapes.

Without the ability to reach out, to see how apt that warmth was to escape, Toby felt trapped as well. He was by himself, with nothing but his own thoughts for company. And while he could finally sleep, and heal his aches and pains in peace, he discovered he sincerely did not like being alone.

Ray informed him of Quickley's offer; both of them knew for a fact Quickley was behind his control trouble. But nothing could be done unless they figured out how Toby had gotten the drug in his system.

"We need to be sure none of your food has been contaminated," said Ray. Toby agreed. It seemed the most likely source.

Ray gave his next advice more reluctantly. "And contact that detective. She may be able to help."

After Ray left that evening, Toby dug around for his cell phone (buried after so many days left alone) and clicked Charlie's number. The phone rang once before she picked up.

"Marks," she greeted.

"Uh, hi, it's Toby," he said.

He heard her stop something on the other end. "Toby," she said. "What's up?"

"Can I stop by the station? I need to talk to you."

There was a pause. "Uh, sure. Can I get some idea of what this is about?"

"I've been having a bit of a problem - you might be able to help."

Another pause. "All right."

"I'll see you in twenty minutes." Toby snapped the phone closed. He didn't know if Stephen Quickley was the man's real name, and he didn't know what Charlie would be able to do without jeopardizing The Secret. It just felt good to be doing something.


	8. Part Eight

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Listener _or any associated characters.

**Part Eight**

Charlie was skeptical. Toby supposed it was one thing to accept that annoying paramedic might be telepathic; everything else was simply an unwelcome intrusion on her sense of reality.

"You just let him into your apartment, no problem," Charlie said. She propped her knee against her desk. "Then you let him dose you with a drug you know nothing about."

Toby leaned forward slightly, and gave Charlie his best knowing look. "I was out of it. Very out it. And I think he might have something to do with that."

"You want me to run this Quickley guy?"

Toby gestured towards the computer. "Please."

Charlie entered Quickley's name with a few deft strokes of her keyboard. "I'm not getting anything," she said. "Unless your guy is twenty years old and currently serving time for armed robbery." Toby leaned in to see the picture. Sure enough, the man on the screen was in no way familiar.

"That's great. I guess it was a bit too much to expect he'd be local."

Charlie sighed. She turned back to the computer, and looked thoughtful for a moment. "You got anything on this guy other than a name?"

Toby racked his brain - he couldn't remember any thoughts he might've picked up before taking the Q. There was the conversation Ray had with the guy, however. "Ray said he mentioned that he'd been in, uh, New York City at some point, I think. Can you do anything with that?"

"Is that all?" She looked doubtful.

"Sorry. Can you do it?"

Charlie tapped the edge of the keyboard several times. "We don't even know if Stephen Quickley is his real name, or when he was in New York if he was there at all. Never mind the fact that this isn't even an official investigation and it's pretty much impossible to get that kind of information."

Toby inhaled. "Right. So there's nothing you can do?"

"Call me if you see him again." Charlie paused. "Toby, do you know what he wants from you? All of this seems kinda . . . abrupt."

All Toby knew was what Quickley told Ray; apart from the sensory shock, the loss of his ability seemed to bring about a degree of impotence on his part. Was this what it was like, not knowing everything right away? "I don't know. It seems like all he wants is money."

"Kind of a roundabout way of making a profit." Charlie looked uncomfortable with the idea, although Toby didn't know why.

Toby sighed deeply. "Kinda hard to actually make money with telepathy. I guess making money _off_ of it might be easier."

Charlie raised an eyebrow. In this he could guess her concern.

"What? I was a bit of a delinquent in my day. 'S'not like I wouldn't try. Anyway, maybe it's not so weird. People spend a lot of time thinking about how to earn an extra buck or two."

"I guess you'd know." Charlie reached over to the mesh box where she piled her papers. She fingered through until she found what she was looking for, then pulled the manila folder towards the edge of her desk. "Look, I have work to do. If you get something else, call me."

Toby smiled, nodded, stood up. He passed Becker on the way out; as usual, the man eyed him suspiciously.

It was getting easier to exist like this. Blind, deaf, lonely. Unfortunately his other worries took the opportunity to grow more prominent in his mind. Somehow he'd been dosed with something similar to an SSRI (he was hazy on precisely what an SSRI was - all he knew was it involved serotonin), and somehow that affected his ability to control his gift. And somehow Quickley had a drug which could not only reverse that effect but block everything out entirely. Not to mention the fact that Quickley had been able to identify him as a telepath.

He shivered slightly as he entered the cold. Even the winter chill seemed empty when it wasn't unsettled with human thought. He'd call Oz, he thought. He hadn't seen Oz in a decent period of time, and weren't they supposed to be best friends? They'd banter. Maybe have a drink - Toby did like that idea, getting a bit drunk without worrying about disrupting negotiations.

Quickley had him, he thought. He was forcing Toby to live his life like this, even if was only for a short time.

* * *

Oz was excellent. He came bearing food, and, after learning the story and asking all the necessary questions, made absolutely certain Toby didn't have to think about it. Toby _did _think about it, of course. But he didn't have to.

"So Ryder pulled out this - I dunno, ten pound bag of stuff and threw it over. Danko looked like she was going to jump out of her skin. It was hilarious."

Toby chuckled obligatorily. He pressed his beer to his lips. "Wish I could've seen that."

"'S'not the same without you, man. Danko's a great paramedic, but she's no good for a laugh."

"I'd hope not. Laughing with someone else, I might get jealous."

They spent the afternoon like that: laughing over stupid things, drinking, eating Turkish food brought over from Oz's parents' restaurant.

Toby got to a point not-quite-tipsy, then cut himself off. It was habitual; he never drank more than enough to take the edge off. He thought for a moment about continuing on, but looked at his watch and realized it was only three in the afternoon.

Oz had finished off the last of the food, and was now looking for something else. "No point," Toby called. "I haven't been shopping in days."

Oz shrugged, and returned to his seat with a jar of dill pickles. "You still had these," he said. They fell silent for a moment, long enough to break the spell Oz had cast.

"It's weird," said Toby.

"Yeah?"

"Ray spent most of my life telling me no one could ever find out about me. He kinda filled my head with ideas about . . . I dunno, mad scientists or something. I got older, and I started worrying more about the fact that people probably wouldn't leave me alone if they found out."

Oz pulled a pickle from the jar, but let it hang off the side. "I guess you never saw this coming, huh."

"I think he's a drug dealer." Assuming all of this wasn't an elaborate lie, that's exactly what Quickley was: weird to realize it.

"My ma always told me you'd get me mixed up with the wrong crowd," said Oz. He dropped a pickle in his mouth, and wiped the juice on his pants. Toby smiled at this small display.

"Yeah, well." Toby dug the heels of his hands into his cheekbones, and used his knuckles to massage his forehead. The silence was starting to bear down on him again, as looming as a storm front.

* * *

Olivia called him the next morning, and was apparently quite surprised to hear him sound alert and awake. He immediately felt guilty for not keeping her informed.

"I'm glad to hear you're feeling better," she said.

"I still feel a bit weird," he said, not untruthfully. "It's not the same kind of weird, though."

She _mm_'d. "Well, you're not due back at work for awhile. Try and rest up."

"I will. And I'll call you if anything changes." He couldn't tell how she reacted to that, but he wasn't frustrated. He was long used to talking on the phone.

"Good. Uh, good. I'll talk to you later?"

"Sure." They hung up. Toby pocketed his phone. He meandered around his apartment for a few seconds, before deciding to grab his coat and wallet and do his grocery shopping. His fridge and cupboards were infertile ground, but he had to eat.

He slipped out onto the street, bundled around himself to hide from the cold. He realized he forgot to write a list, then decided it didn't matter. He'd just pick up the basics anyway - cereal, milk, bread, coffee, mayonnaise. Maybe an apple or two. Probably some TV dinners. Toby memory wasn't the best, but he could manage that. He didn't have all the usual distractions anyway -

Damn. He'd nearly forgotten that.

For thirty seconds he had been exactly like everyone else on the planet. Now his awareness shifted back to the wraithlike quality of the people around him, to the barrenness of the air he was breathing. And it was a good thing he did.

Something clicked. His heart thumped. No, he couldn't hear again, but he needed to talk to that man across the street . . . Which one? Toby scanned the opposite sidewalk. That one.

Toby made his way across the street as quickly and as legally as possible. The man was loitering. As Toby drew nearer, he began to recognize him as his landlord's go-to handyman. He lived in Toby's building, as a matter of fact.

"You," called Toby, as soon as he was in reasonable range, "I need to talk to you."

The man (Vince, Toby recalled) startled. "Who're you?"

"I live in your building. I think you might know someone I need to get into contact with." Toby immediately focused in to get whatever information Vince might've had, but of course he couldn't. So he stopped his jog, breathed into his gloves.

"I don't know you, man," said Vince, and swiped his nose. He turned as if to walk away, but instead swiveled back to face Toby. "And I don't know anyone."

"Stephen Quickley?" Toby prodded. The man seemed a bit flustered at this.

"Never heard of him. Her. I guess you never know these days. Met a girl named Tony when I was visiting my mom in Brighton . . . Sorry I couldn't help you, man."

Toby let this strange intuition guide his words: "C'mon. I saw you talking with him about a week ago."

Vince glanced behind him again. He was going to run, Toby realized. "You got the wrong guy."

"No, I'm pretty sure. If you could just -" Suddenly, Toby knew. It wasn't like before. He didn't hear the specific thought - but he got the number. _555-5197. _He stored the number in his memory carefully, as though it were a fragile egg. Then he shook his head, clicked his tongue, and gave Vince an apologetic look. "Sorry. You're right. Sorry."

He resisted the urge to run. He walked as calmly as possible out of Vince's earshot, then unfolded his phone. It rang once before Charlie answered.

"Charlie. I have a number." He told her.

"I thought your, you know, was gone?"

"Yeah, no, I know. It hasn't come back. But it's the number, trust me." Toby pulled his hands over his cheeks.

"Toby -"

"It couldn't hurt to run it, yeah?" He heard keyboard strokes, and seconds later she replied.

"It's a cell phone, here in Toronto. It belongs to one Stephen Floss."

Toby could feel his muscles grow springier, and he bounced lightly on the balls of his feet. Two women edged past him, and he stepped closer to the closest wall. "Good. All right. Give me his address."

"Toby -" Charlie began again, but sighed. "This man could be dangerous. You need cops on this."

"What'll you tell them? Quickley's dosed your friend Toby with something that makes his telepathic powers go on the fritz?"

"If he does have those drugs, we could get him on possession."

"_Charlie_. C'mon. I don't want you or anyone else having to explain all this to anyone, okay? Just give me his address and let me go."

A beat passed. "Fine. At least let me come with you."

Toby fell back against the wall. By this point he was oblivious to the cold and the silence. Things would go back to normal. He'd go back to work in a week and no one would ever know what had happened. "Fine," he said. "Just hurry."

He walked back to his building, an anxious spring in his step. Rationally, he knew this could turn out any one of a million different ways. That this was no guarantee his life would reorient itself properly. Everything was so uncertain, so incredibly strange.

But they had found Quickley.


	9. Part Nine

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Listener _or any associated characters.

**Part Nine**

Quickley's building was in a still little nook of the city, camouflaged by its position and relative lack of animation. Two teenagers dawdled on the sidewalk, fiddling with cell phones and conversing softly. Several unremarkable cars in colors all resembling white or olive green were parked by the side of the road.

Charlie pulled into one of many open spots. They swung their doors open, and stared up at the building. The fact that it wasn't an empty lot spoke to the likeliness Quickley was actually here; still, Toby could feel reality catching up with him. The man seemed able to walk in and out of a moment with ease - both of his appearances had been brief and abrupt. In conjunction with the loss of his telepathy, Toby was justifiably unnerved.

They walked up the steps. Entering the building, they were met with a strong smell reminiscent of scentless soap. Charlie checked the room number again. "He's on the second floor," she said, and they moved towards the stairwell. Toby's muscles twitched with nervous energy.

"You think he's actually here?" he asked.

"I don't know," she replied. They made their way slowly up to the second floor. Toby dragged his hand along the railing. His every thought seemed to bite into his skull like shrapnel, and ache in the silence. He wished he could hear Charlie. Her mind was usually well-ordered and her thoughts to the point. She'd be able to make him realize that this was okay, Quickley was just a guy.

But Quickley had mutilated Toby's self-control, then rendered that control unnecessary, all without preamble or warning of any kind. Toby had doubted his future as a functional human being. A man had died unnecessarily because his EMT's attentions had been drawn and quartered.

They reached the appropriate landing, and Toby pushed through the door. The hallway was, oddly enough, tiled. The lights buzzed with bright white fluorescence.

He followed Charlie to the door listed as Stephen Floss's. She looked at him. Her fingers grazed the pocket where she'd hidden her badge, and she knocked.

For several impossibly long seconds, they waited. At last Toby heard footfalls, and the door opened. Like the first calm breeze after a storm, Quickley stood there.

"This happens sometimes," he said. "Come in, will you?" Quickley smiled, and gestured towards the interior.

"I'm not so sure about that," said Charlie, "but thanks for the invitation. Mr. Quickley -"

Toby stepped forward, angling himself so he was now almost standing beside Charlie. "I need to know what's going on," he said.

"Sure you do." Quickley jabbed his thumb towards his apartment again. "This is another conversation we probably shouldn't have in the hall."

Toby and Charlie simultaneously scanned said hall; it was empty. "There's no one here," said Charlie. Her hand brushed her gun.

"You never know who might be listening." He looked at Toby meaningfully.

Toby rolled his shoulders. He breathed in. "C'mon, Charlie."

Charlie brought her hand to rest on her holster, and made sure to stay a step ahead of Toby as they entered. As Quickley closed the door behind them, he smiled. "Christ, Detective, what do you think I'm going to do?"

Charlie's hand didn't move. "I don't know," she said coolly.

Toby scanned the apartment. It was surprisingly open and clean. The walls had been repainted sometime in the last five years, and the carpet was stainless. A few boxes were stacked in one corner, and apart from a few books stacked lazily on a shelf, the room was rather impersonal. This wasn't a particularly upscale building, but Toby had spent his fair share of time in rat's nests, and this wasn't one of them.

"You don't seem too surprised we're here," said Toby. He crossed his arms over his chest, and tried to not leap out of his skin.

Quickley leaned into a wall. "Well, you know. Like I said, this happens sometimes. I don't see why it should bother me. I gotta ask how you found me, though."

"We're here to get more information." Toby could feel half his body twitch. He wanted to _do _something, but the situation wasn't calling for anything but talking. At the very least, he wanted to get inside Quickley's head, but that wasn't an option.

"That struck me as being kind of obvious. There isn't much information to give. You overloaded, I rebooted you. If you mean scientifically, your ability involves a delicate interaction of chemicals which is easily -"

"How did you find him?" interrupted Charlie. Toby glanced at her.

"I pay attention," Quickley said. He smiled. "Look, we're all crowding around the door, here, why don't we get something to drink?"

"We're fine where we are," said Charlie. Quickley shrugged.

"Fine."

Toby shifted his weight. Suddenly, something occurred to him. "Wait. You've done this before. That means -"

"There are others." Quickley looked straight at him, and flashed a slow, genuine grin. "That always gets me, too. It's all well and good for there to be one or twoof you, but dozens . . ."

"Dozens?" The energy coiling in Toby's muscles suddenly doubled, as though someone had plugged him into a car battery.

"Sure. The weirdest thing is, you're spread out across all these different genetic groups. I've met people like you on four continents. Chinese, Kenyan, Swedish, now some random Canadian paramedic." Quickley seemed, for the first time, rather excited. "So you're not alone, actually."

"And you travel around doing _what_, exactly?" asked Charlie. Suspicion and skepticism colored her voice more strongly than before.

"They," he gestured towards Toby, "occasionally go haywire. Well, actually it's more like that's the default position. So I should say that as the telepathy grows stronger, the switch sometimes gets jammed. It gets harder to keep things out, and that gets painful -"

"I know this already," said Toby. His mind was reeling with . . . well, everything. Perhaps it was a good thing he didn't have to worry about negotiating the barrier as well. "But what about the drug?"

"Q?" said Quickley. "I already told you, it works with the chemicals in your brain."

"Ray said there was a drug that behaves like an SSRI in my system. No way that got there just coincidentally."

Charlie crossed her arms, to show agreement.

Quickley smiled. "I don't have anything to do with it." He paused. "Look, since you're here, we ought to discuss the situation. I really wish you two would sit down."

After a bit more haggling, Quickley managed to get them to sit down. He didn't have a TV, Toby noticed. Charlie refused drinks - even water - as soon as they were offered, which was probably smart.

As he sunk into the seat cushion, Toby attempted to unwind some of the knots in his gut. It wasn't doing any good, being this on edge, and they were actually getting information.

Quickley fixed a single cup of coffee before situating himself in an armchair. "There's nothing you mind her hearing? I figured she knows about you, but I understand there are limits."

"No, she stays." Of course there were many things Toby didn't want Charlie to know, but she was better than Quickley and it appeared Quickley knew a lot.

Quickley shrugged. Charlie glanced over at Toby - it was obvious she didn't want to know anything, either, but she had her obligations.

"I wouldn't leave if he wanted me to," said Charlie. Her hand perched on her thigh, inches away from the handle of her gun.

"All right. Well, the most obvious topic we could discuss is payment, but I've already talked to Dr. Mercer about that." Quickley sipped his coffee. "I'd like to put to rest some worries you might have about me. I know from experience you lot tend to get kind of nervous when I step into the picture."

Toby said nothing.

"I really do just want to help. I wouldn't make you pay except for the fact that the Q does cost something to make, and I have travel expenses. Among other things."

"Like setting up false identities?" said Charlie, crossing her legs at the knee. "Stephen Floss, for instance."

"Sure. It's not just _my _privacy I'm protecting after all." He smiled at Toby, and took another gulp from his coffee mug. "I get caught distributing a strange drug, people start asking questions, and eventually all my clients get tracked down. I'm not really sure what would happen after that, but I wouldn't want it to be my fault."

Toby could, with a little bit of thought, see the manipulation here. Quickley was friendly, just colloquial enough to be disarming. He played on an obvious paranoia. He had handy excuses for everything. But what could they do to get the truth? Toby hoped desperately for another sudden flash of intuition, but none was forthcoming.

"Oh, yeah, I'm sure keeping your 'clients' out of your hair has nothing to do with it," said Charlie.

"You found me, didn't you?" said Quickley.

"You still haven't told us how you found _me_," said Toby, running his hands along his thighs to his knees. "And don't change the subject."

"It's a combination of luck and thoroughness," said Quickley, entirely too vaguely. "And, I'll admit, getting my hands on information I'm not supposed to have." He glanced at Charlie. "But I guess I have uncommon luck. Some people do."

"Then you come in and get your money."

"I do my job." Quickley reached out and set his mug on the coffee table. "Look, have you ever stopped to think about all this? I mean, really? I've talked to a decent number of you people, and all of you seem rather caught up in the 'I, me, mine' aspect of it. I'm sympathetic to everything you've put up with. But can you just think for ten seconds how incredibly bizarre it is that you exist? Even more so, that so few people know it?"

Toby began to say something, but Quickley cut him off.

"No. Sure, uh, research has been done. The Nazis might've known something, or the Soviets, or even the Americans, and the - well. How do you think I got a hold of Q? I'm not a scientist." Quickley paused, but again began talking before either Toby or Charlie could say anything. "No, I don't just go in and get my money. I dunno how you reacted when you found out, Detective -"

Charlie glanced away briefly.

"- but when I realized that something absolutely impossible was going on, I wanted to dig into it. For God's sake, you can _read minds_."

"So this is some kind of philosophical exercise?" said Toby.

He felt a twitch of something against what would ordinarily be his barrier. Maybe - no, it was gone.

"Don't give that 'it's my life' line. I didn't drag you somewhere kicking and screaming, I solved a very real problem on your part."

Finally, Toby couldn't stand it. He stood up. "A problem you caused!" he exclaimed. He stepped up onto and then over the coffee table, then directly in front of Quickley's chair. "We know about the drug."

Quickley, though still appearing rather excited, didn't move. "I told you I had nothing to do with that."

Charlie had also stood up by this point. "Seems like one hell of a coincidence," she said. Her voice was even but for a tinge of concern.

"About as unlikely as telepathy," said Quickley. "All I wanted to do was make it so you could live your life."

"I hate it. I can't even - everyone looks _dead_. I could be walking down a street filled with people, and I still feel alone. You call that livable?"

"You're not curled up on the sofa wishing you were dead anymore, are you?" said Quickley evenly, and Toby pulled back. He felt another pang of sound somewhere in his mind, but again it came to nothing.

All the excess energy in Toby's body flooded out. Where he before he had felt spring-loaded and anxious, now he just felt a vague sense of unease. Glancing up at Charlie, he saw she looked rather disturbed herself. Probably not for the same reason. Her fingers remained curled around her gun.

"We'll talk when the Q wears off," said Quickley. Toby could tell they'd been dismissed.


	10. Part Ten

A/N: All I can say is _wow, is it Halloween already? _And, of course, I'm sorry. The ugly beast known as Real Life reared its ugly head, and the only writing I had time for was the occasional grocery list. Things should be calmer now, and with any luck I'll be able to continue this without further interruption.

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Listener _or any associated characters.

**Part Ten**

Oz knew, usually, when and where he had a place in a situation. In this case, when Toby needed him to be fun and distracting and all the stuff Osman Bey was supposed to be, he was. Otherwise, he stayed out of the way. Somehow he hadn't expected Olivia to need him.

"Oz, hey, I wanted to talk with you," she said, and gave a rather abrupt tug on his arm. His coffee sloshed. She led him to an empty examination room.

Oz straightened himself out. "What's up?"

"Have you spoken with Toby recently? I was on the phone with him the other day. He sounded better."

Oz sucked on his teeth, and glanced at the door. "Yeah, he is, kinda. I brought over some food from my parents' place, we kept each other company."

"What do you mean, kind of?" Her eyes were sharper than he'd seen them.

He almost said, "It's complicated," but he realized he could offer at least some information. "He's not really back on his feet just yet."

Olivia deflated. She slumped against the door, and rubbed the heel of her hand over her brow ridge. "Ugh. I just wish he'd keep me better informed. I'm his doctor."

"Bit more than that," said Oz under his breath. Olivia glared at him.

After a moment, she softened. "I know he has a right to privacy, but I really think that I could help. I mean, I have _no idea _what could be wrong with him that he'd need to keep secret. Or how it connects to all the other stuff he's lied about."

Oz offered a weak smile. "I dunno. Maybe it's not something he wants to tell you when he's sick. Sometimes you have to wait till the moment's right."

"Yeah," she said. "Still."

They stood for a moment in silent commiseration before returning to work.

* * *

The car ride back from Quickley's was tense. Charlie couldn't quite understand why they hadn't shaken him down more thoroughly, and Toby's mind was a whirl of questions and useless answers.

"He's not - I don't know. He's good at this." Toby's toes twitched.

Charlie's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "So am I," she said. "I was doing just fine before you showed up."

A faint mumbling intruded on his thoughts. He looked at Charlie, and it was gone. "This is a guy who knows everything about me. Charlie, I can read minds. I'm not the easiest person to tail."

"As if that's the only explanation."

Toby shifted in his seat, and leaned into the window. "He creeps me out."

Charlie glanced at him, although he didn't see. "He's not exactly Joe Six-Pack, I agree."

"No, it's just -" Toby looked out at the street, where hollow people drove depthless cars. "I'm used to being in people's heads. I don't _enjoy_ it," he said quickly, "but I'm there. Or I was. And I didn't realize until now exactly how much a part of me that is."

"And he messed with it," said Charlie softly. She twisted the steering wheel, and they turned onto slightly more crowded street.

"I don't even know how. The idea that someone could just find out about me, and then take it away, is . . . I don't quite feel -"

"Safe," finished Charlie. Toby turned his head towards her, and suddenly made the obvious connection.

Foreign thought rippled in the back of his mind, but he couldn't quite make out the words.

Charlie put on the brakes, and Toby realized they were outside his apartment building. She gave him a look. "Thanks," he said.

"If you need anything, call me," she said.

Toby hesitated. "I will," he said.

He slipped out of the car, and pulled his coat tighter around him. The air, empty as it was, still stung against his face. Charlie waited for him to reach the steps before driving off.

Toby watched her, then climbed the stairs.

He jolted slightly when he suddenly noticed a neighbor shutting her door, but shook it off. He still wasn't quite used to seeing people before he sensed them - or not sensing them at all. She smiled and nodded, then went on her way. Her keys jangled like a ghost's chains.

_Okay_, he thought, _plan. Need a plan._

They knew where Quickley was, at least for now. He knew that Quickley would probably show up again when the drug wore off, so he could at least rely on that. He knew that there were others, or at least that Quickley wanted him to think there were others.

He shut the door to his apartment behind him, and shrugged off his coat. He'd been trying not to think about that.

Toby folded himself up into a kitchen chair, and he realized he still hadn't bought groceries. Oz would be working, so he'd need to call for pizza himself.

He fished in his pocket for his cell phone, then dialed the number from memory. It rang twice. "Mitzi's Pizza, where friendliness is free of charge. How can I help you?"

Toby gave his usual order. "My pleasure," the girl chirped, despite the fact that he hadn't actually thanked her. "And I can guarantee delivery within thirty minutes."

"Thanks," he said, and flipped the phone shut. He rubbed at a soreness on one forearm that hadn't quite faded. He glanced at the sink, then stood up to get a drink.

He was distracted enough to let the glass overfill, so he sloshed some off the top and brought it to his lips. The water had barely touched his tongue when realization overcame him.

If Quickley was drugging him, he had to be doing it _somehow_. Toby set his glass down rather violently. There was the possibility it was in the water. How the hell had they missed that?

He stared at the cup for a moment, reclaiming his nerves. It was such a stupid mistake, such a dumb thing not to consider - he could understand missing it himself, all things considered, but Ray should've thought of it. Toby shivered, just enough to let the nervous energy roil off of him.

He inhaled, and pushed the glass towards the back of the counter. He probed his pocket for his phone. He scrolled through his contacts, looking for Ray's name. The thought occurred to him that he hadn't even called him about finding Quickley.

"This is a mess," he muttered. He pressed the appropriate button, and Ray's number flashed on the screen.

It rang twice, then Ray answered on the third. "Toby?"

Toby crossed his free arm over his chest. "Yeah," he said, unsure how to begin. "I know you're probably eating, but -"

Ray understood immediately. "I'll be right over. Is something - _wrong_?"

"Not that way," said Toby. "Could you just . . .?"

There was a pause. "No, of course. Give me fifteen minutes."

"Yeah," said Toby. They hung up, and he paced.

Ray arrived before the pizza. Toby opened the door without checking the peephole - it simply wasn't a habit - and was still somewhat shocked when there was a person on the other side. There was something there, something more than before, but he was too frazzled to care.

Ray stepped in without an invitation. He didn't need one. "What is it?" he asked.

Toby gestured for the table. They took their seats. "Something's wrong," he said. "There's just too much - I dunno. I - Charlie and I - went to go see Quickley today, and -"

Ray stopped him. "You went to see Quickley? Without telling me?"

"I didn't think of it," said Toby. Ray gave him a look.

"How'd you find him?"

There was another thing Ray probably needed to know. "I got it off a guy. It wasn't quite the same as the way I usually do it," he said quickly, "but I got his number. Charlie ran it, and we got an address."

Ray processed this for a moment. Toby could guess, at least, that he was attempting to decide which question to ask next. "What did he tell you?" he asked after a beat.

"He's done this before," said Toby slowly, keeping the thought filed firmly under 'worry later'. "But he's good at keeping control. He didn't let anything slip."

Ray drummed his fingers on the tabletop. He adjusted his scarf. "All right. Assuming he doesn't move base, we know where he is now. That counts for something."

Toby threw a sideways glance towards nothing in particular. Noise crackled in the back of his head. Still no words, no meaning, nothing he had the time to be troubled about yet. "There's something else."

Ray lifted his eyebrows.

"We missed something." His gaze shifted to the glass, and then back to Ray. "Something I don't think we should've."

His friend's expression urged him on, and Toby continued. "If he's . . . drugging me . . . he has to be doing it somehow. Putting something in my food, or water, or something."

"Yes," agreed Ray, slowly. "That's obvious."

"But we haven't been thinking about it." There was a long pause as Ray put things together.

"No," he said. "No." Ray shook his head. "That doesn't make any sense."

"It ought to've been one of the first things we thought of, after Liv ran that test." Toby swallowed. Ray was obviously distressed, and struggling to keep up his usual front. "But all we ever asked was who."

Ray's eye twitched, just once, and when he spoke his voice was level. "If there was something interfering with our ability to investigate this, why would it only affect that one question? And -" He paused. "- how would such an effect be placed?"

Toby exhaled, and leaned over the heels of his hands. He ground them into his eyes. "I don't know. You were right before - none of this makes any sense."

Ray relaxed on hand on the table, and ran the other over his head. "We just have to think through this. Make sure we're not missing anything else, then go from there."

"Yeah," said Toby.

And in the back of his mind, the crackling noise grew.


	11. Part Eleven

A/N: *cough* Right, okay. So things didn't go exactly as planned. I thought I'd reached a lull, which didn't work out so well. But here's part eleven, and I'll try to be better in the future.

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Listener _or any associated characters.

**Part Eleven**

Since his telepathy came back gradually, Toby had a chance to appreciate it. People slowly filled back out again, and the air gradually regained the charge he was accustomed to. He'd wondered his whole life about silence, and solitude, and now he wondered how normal people managed to connect with each other at all. While it was true he had problems in that area himself, they were nothing compared to what he'd experienced for those few days.

They were alone, all the time, and they never even realized it.

But now things were returning to him. He was even beginning to make out individual strands of meaning among the crackle now, mostly from people he knew well. Olivia accepted an invitation to go out to eat - a date fueled entirely by agape, she'd remind him, should he dare think otherwise - and he managed to hear some of what she was thinking. Usually he wouldn't actively try to listen, but these were unusual circumstances.

_I wish I had the nerve to ask . . ._

Toby dropped his fork onto his plate. "Good to eat real food," he said. "I've been living outta bare cupboards for awhile now."

Olivia smiled weakly. "Maybe you should go shopping," she said.

"I've tried," he said. "Fate seems to be conspiring against me."

"I could pick you up something after work tomorrow," she said carefully. She dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin, before dropping it on the table as well. Toby suspected she just wanted to do something for him.

"No, I was planning to go tomorrow, already. Nothing but free time until next week." He caught the look on her face. "But I was wondering -"

She immediately sat up straighter.

"- I know you've been worried. And I know you know there's something wrong more than just what I've told you."

Olivia's face twisted into an unusual expression. "No, Toby, I - I understand."

Toby swallowed. "I appreciate that. But I want you to know that I want to tell you. And I will, sometime. When this is over."

The waiter briefly interrupted them, and asked if they wanted the check. Once they clarified that they'd be paying separately, he scuttled off again.

Toby returned his gaze to Olivia. "I don't think I've been fair to you," he said.

Olivia adjusted in her seat, and looked away briefly. "Maybe," she said. _I can't believe this he's . . ._

"And I want you to know there's a reason I run off all the time, and act weird. And the reason I didn't tell you had nothing to do with you. And . . ."

Her eyes were slightly red, now, and Toby hoped she wouldn't cry.

"And I was just wondering if you could promise me something."

"Anything," said Olivia. She swiped a finger underneath her left eye, and seemed to compose herself.

"Just - don't freak out," said Toby. "It's not . . . It's not exactly what you might be expecting."

There was a long pause. Olivia observed him strangely for a moment, before swallowing and nodding. "Of course," she said. "It doesn't matter what it is, Toby, I still - well."

_I could so easily . . ._

Toby smiled weakly, and reached across the table. With some hesitation, she grabbed his hand. "I guess I have something to look forward to, now," he said.

She smiled.

* * *

Ray was worried. He'd been worried before, but not nearly so much as now. They had good reason to suspect something was actively and specifically screwing not only with Toby's thought process but with his as well. He'd advised Toby to live as normally as possible for as long as possible, while Ray tried to puzzle this out, but the truth was he had no idea what he was doing.

He was the closest thing to an expert on telepathy as existed. For nineteen years he'd studied Toby, and slowly befriended him in the process. There was a box of files in a safe behind the mirror in his living room detailing every exercise he'd invented, every nuance of experience he'd documented, every scientific explanation he could come up with. Now he hunched over it all, desperate figure out what the hell was going on.

He spread three packets of paper out on the floor. The first was typewritten and slightly yellow - Ray's initial documentation. The second was slightly longer, also typewritten, and contained his first tentative theory on the precise mechanism of Toby's ability. The third was only a few years old, and contained some newer ideas.

"If the information he receives is a translation from pure thought into words and images . . ." Ray bit his lip. He picked up the first packet, and flipped several pages.

Thought was, physically, little more than electrical impulses and interaction between brain cells. In order for Toby to pick up on it in so specific a way, something had to be released in that process. Toby received that something, translated it, and . . .

"That could be an idea," said Ray, and reached for his laptop.

* * *

Toby closed the door to his apartment behind him. He threw his keys onto the closest surface, and unbuttoned his coat. Above him, he could feel the Bhatnagars' thoughts, even if they weren't very well defined. The Steins weren't home.

"Damn," he said. "I can't believe I just did that."

He moved to the fridge, and contemplated a beer, before remembering that he was once again on thin ice with regards to his control. He hadn't had any problems yet, but he wasn't fully recovered yet, either. Most thoughts were still little more than a buzz in the back of his head.

Instead he flopped onto the couch. "Wow," he said, still reeling. He had no reason to think Olivia would react badly, but his stomach still tightened at the thought of telling her. Apart from actually exchanging rings, that was about the biggest step he was capable of taking in a relationship.

He actually looked forward to it.

He hadn't planned on it, hadn't thought about it in the slightest before the fact, but there it was. And now it was another step towards a relatively normal future - sans Quickley, and sans crazy drugs.

He'd check in with Ray the next morning. Things were going to be okay.

* * *

Olivia felt as though something was going to explode inside her - some organ she hadn't learned about in medical school. This wasn't some schoolgirl love (actually, her more romantic feelings towards Toby barely factored at all). This was hope.

She knew there was every chance he would bail on her again. She probably wouldn't forgive him if he did. But this was as close to the Great Mystery as she had ever been.

"He's going to tell me," she told herself. "And then -"

Maybe there was no "and then." Maybe Toby's secrecy was just the first of their problems. "Urgh."

She took a brief shower and changed into her nightgown. It did not do to hover on the negativities, she decided. And Toby wasn't even back on his feet yet. There were still other things to worry about.

* * *

Quickley enjoyed the mysterious and the otherworldly. This trait had lasted him since childhood: the first thing he bought with his own money was a deck of tarot cards and a book on how to interpret them. He still took them with him, nestled away in one of the boxes he never bothered to unpack.

He grew up after that, of course. He hadn't majored in parapsychology when he went to college, hadn't devoted his life to hunting alien spacecraft. He'd been married twice, had held down a stable job with a PR firm, and learned to keep himself anchored firmly to predictable terra firma.

When he met his first telepath - a real one, a normal person who had never so much as contemplated taking up headscarves and incense - and when he began exploring the world just behind her, he dropped it all. Second wife and steady money included.

But he grew up again. His plans were in line and his research thorough. He had no reason to be concerned about Toby Logan.

* * *

The next morning, Toby was both pleased and dismayed to count the number of dreams that weren't his. Mrs. Stein, he'd discovered long ago, dreamt strange stories of birds and sunsets and floating voices, and he recognized which were hers right away. There were others, many belonging to neighbors he could ordinarily block out with little trouble.

He reached out to find their voices. It was something of a relief to find he still had no problem controlling them, but he doubted that would last long.

The clock read 8:19AM. Ray, Toby decided, had likely been up two hours already and wouldn't mind a phone call. He pushed thoughts of Olivia out of his mind, and stumbled out of bed.

He would've made himself a cup of coffee, but he still needed to shop. Instead he stood for a minute, waking himself with his standard mental gymnastics. Then he set to find his cell phone.

He clicked Ray's name, and then brought it to his ear. While it rang, he yawned. After three rings, Ray picked up.

"Toby?" he said. There was an edge to his voice.

"Yeah," said Toby.

"I think I might have it."


	12. Part Twelve

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Listener _or any associated characters.

**Part Twelve**

The only of his winter clothes Ray bothered to remove were his gloves, and those he kept crunched between his hands. He sat on the edge of his seat on the couch, leaning over his knees. His tone was equal parts near-familial concern and Archimedean enthusiasm: Toby could feel the _eureka _moment in question being played repeatedly in the man's head.

"You're talking about mind control," said Toby numbly. It didn't have to make sense, he thought. He didn't live in that kind of world.

Ray looked at him for a moment, and then nodded. "I suppose so," he said. "But that's really an oversimplification. And it wouldn't be possible to make you _do _anything. It's closer to hypnotic suggestion than anything else."

Toby ran his hands over his face. Mrs. Stein was checking her morning mail; enclosed was an envelope from a magazine to which she'd mailed a short story. He'd missed that. Probably happened during his deaf stint. "How does it work?" he asked.

Ray smiled slightly. "When you hear - sound, I mean - your brain has to process it. Speech enters your ears as little more than vibration, which, by the time you consciously deal with it, has been translated into the sensation of sound. That sound is then connected to its meaning, and you hear. Your telepathy works in much the same way."

"How does that have anything to do with mind control?"

"Whatever Q does, it robs you of your ability to process, not receive." Ray paused, as though expecting an epiphany on Toby's part. "You were still taking in thoughts, but instead of being translated into sensation, they were translated straight into meaning. This explains your 'intuition' earlier, as well."

Toby blinked, and leaned back in his chair. "Then how come that only happened once? And you're still not telling me anything about mind control, Ray."

"It might take a certain amount of intent to break through Q's silencing effects. You wouldn't be equipped to handle pure meaning in the same way. I'm therefore led to believe that -"

Toby sat bolt straight, so violently he could feel his vertebrae realigning. "The handyman. Quickley wanted me to find him."

Ray shifted. He set his gloves down on his knee. "It's entirely possible."

"Why?" Toby asked. His own mind was now revolving out of control. For every new question he had to suppress, he felt himself being wound tighter.

Ray's eyes were alight, but his posture expressed worry. "That's where the suggestion comes in." He stood up, and paced around the opposite end of Toby's coffee table. "He needed to be able to plant an idea - ideas, possibly - in your mind. 'Ignore the poison's source,' for example. If you're taking a powerful thought in, but aren't able to separate it out from your own . . ."

"Oh," said Toby. Something in him deflated, and he fell back in his seat. He tried to remember one of the questions which had plagued him mere seconds ago, and came up blank. So he searched for a new one. "So how'd that affect you? You missed it, too."

Ray faltered. "I'm not sure," he said.

Toby, still struggling to keep a hold on himself, pressed his hand against the side of his face. Ray ran a hand over his head. "We have an idea, now," said Toby. "So that's good."

"Yes," Ray agreed.

"We need to do something," said Toby. "Go back to Quickley's apartment; see what he has to say."

Ray crossed his arms. "How much of your telepathy do you have back?"

Toby gingerly pushed himself out of his chair. "Most of it," he said. "And I haven't lost control yet."

"I'll come with you," said Ray. He pulled his gloves back on. "Should we call your detective?"

Toby crossed the room, grabbed his coat, and tucked his cell phone and wallet into separate pockets. "I'm sure she's busy," he said.

And they were on their way.

* * *

Olivia was light on her feet when she arrived at the hospital that morning. Worry clouded a part of her mind, but only a part. Oz noticed when they saw each other. "What's up with you?" he asked. Olivia hesitated.

"Toby said he'd tell me," she said after a beat.

A strange expression crossed Oz's features. "The big thing?" he asked.

Olivia adjusted her ponytail. "Are there little things he's not telling me?"

"You've already gotten him into bed. I dunno how to answer that." Oz rubbed the back of his neck. "What'd he say?"

"He said -" Olivia inhaled. "- he said he hadn't been fair to me, and that when all this is over, he's going to tell me. He said there was a reason he does the things he does."

Oz's eyebrows flitted towards his hairline. "Whoa. That's big." A beat. "I'm surprised you haven't killed yourself over thinking it."

Olivia smiled, and glanced down at her watch. "Did that last night," she said. "I decided it wasn't worth it. Hey, look, I have a patient. I'll talk to you later." She touched his shoulder, and began walking quickly down the hallway. There was a definite spring in her step.

"Good luck," Oz called after her, and she didn't hear.

* * *

As luck would have it, Quickley wasn't home. "Are you sure he isn't in there?" asked Ray.

Toby pressed around in the apartment, but there was no response. "There's no one there," he said. He leaned against the door. "What do we do now?" he asked.

"We could wait here," said Ray.

Toby shook his head, and glanced down the hallway. "What if he's moved?" he asked. "You said it yourself - he wanted me to find him last time. What if that's changed?"

Ray smoothed his scarf, and eyed the door. "What'd he say the last time you spoke with him?" he asked.

"He said we'd talk when the Q wore off."

Ray nodded. "Well, it's wearing off. We know that much. Even if we can't find him, he'll find you, eventually."

"By which point I'll be too screwed up to pick anything out of his head." Toby weakly slammed the door, in an unconvincing simulation of anger. What was he supposed to be feeling? He couldn't help but wonder. "I'm sick of this," he said.

Ray leaned into the wall next to him. "Not necessarily," he said. "He's trying to give the appearance of legitimacy. If he wants to maintain his front, he'll have to talk to you when you're . . . yourself."

"What if he doesn't?" said Toby. "I just - I don't even know what's happening, Ray. None of this makes sense."

Ray observed him sympathetically. _I've helped you through some unusual problems but this one well if anyone can handle it and it's still not as bad as I feared . . ._

Toby exhaled. "What were you worried about, Ray, that was worse than this?"

"You know damn well," said Ray. He put a hand on Toby's shoulder, and pulled him away from the door. "Come on. It won't do us any good to wait around."

Toby wished, not for the first time, that he could run off and get drunk like anyone else. Quickley's (former?) neighbors murmured in his skull, their thoughts as subdued as their neighborhood. It was the kind of place Toby thought he might like to live, far away from the noisy ups and downs of his community's various marriages and friendships. He'd buy a beige sedan, get an office job, and the only foreign dreams he'd have to sift through in the morning would be about tax returns and hockey games.

Yeah, he thought. He'd put up with that.

* * *

Olivia scanned the chart with patient eyes. It was a routine checkup, the man's first of the year. He wasn't allergic to any medication and he had no known medical conditions. She doubted the exam would take long.

She slid into the room, in the process of digging a pen from her coat pocket. "Mr. Floss," she said. "How are you doing today?"

Floss smiled at her. "Fine. Just thought I'd make sure I'm staying that way."

Olivia smiled back. "Well, if you could remove your shirt, we can start." Floss complied, and Olivia pulled her stethoscope to her ears. "Breathe deeply."

"Is this the hospital where that EMT collapsed?" asked Floss once she'd finished.

Olivia looked at him strangely. "Your lungs sound good," she said. "And yeah. Why do you ask?"

Floss studied her for a moment. "I knew the guy who died because of him," he said. "He was a good friend of mine."

Olivia returned her stethoscope to its proper place around her neck. "Oh," she said softly. "I'm sorry."

Floss shrugged. He smiled in an unusual, half-hearted way, and pulled his shirt back over his head. "No. He was a jackass, you know? Wouldn't call me anything but Stevie. Even when I asked him to write me a character recommendation . . ." He trailed off. "Do you know the guy? The paramedic? Does he still work here?"

Olivia's lips tightened. "I - he's on medical leave. It wasn't his fault, you know."

Floss smiled again. "Sure," he said. "I'd still like to talk with him."

"I'm afraid I can't help you," said Olivia politely. There was something off about the guy, she thought. And with everything that had been going on with Toby, she didn't want to add a stalker to the list. "Now, look, I have to finish this exam, so if you could step onto the scales over there -"

Floss stood up, but he didn't move towards the scales. "Do you know about him?" he asked. His voice was casual, his demeanor unthreatening.

Olivia's mouth opened, just slightly. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said. He eyed her.

"I guess not," he said amiably. "Ah, well. Could you deliver a message for me?"

Olivia moved one foot just slightly towards the door. "Depends on what it is," she said.

Floss smiled again. "Tell him his dose is due," he said. He rolled his shoulders, glanced at his chart on the desk. "Thanks, Dr. Fawcett, for your time." He ran a hand through his hair, and the left the room without another word.

Olivia turned to watch him, and somehow he was gone. An ominous sensation settled into her gut. She didn't know who that was, but she was calling Toby.


End file.
